


in the silence and solitude of night

by littlebirdfalling



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Author is weak for found family tropes, BE SAFE KIDS, M/M, Mentions of past child abuse, Multi, Other, Some parts of this are definitely not light, Verbal Abuse, really just a Patron Minette origins story, tw child abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-07-06 10:48:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15884505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlebirdfalling/pseuds/littlebirdfalling
Summary: Broken souls reunite in the darkness, with one common cause-To raise some hell and make their lives mean something.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Charles Baudelaire’s “at one o clock in the morning”  
> This story has been a long time coming, I’ve always wanted to write about how Patron Minette came together, and at last I’ve done it! Update schedule depends on my mental health, motivation, the cycle of the moon, etc, so I promise nothing.  
> I hope you enjoy!

Glorieux is the first. Still a child, barely thirteen and short for his age, but nevertheless accustomed to violence and thievery already. He can’t exactly be blamed for it. When your parents run a massive drug ring out of your basement it’s hard to lead a normal childhood.

Well, Glorieux thinks stubbornly, normal childhoods are for losers. 

The lock clicks open under his hands and he grins in satisfaction. Fourteen seconds. This house is going to be a blessing for him-empty, abandoned, and hours away from his parents. 

He opens the door silently, stepping inside with a slight grimace at the state of his muddy sneakers. The light switch doesn’t work, which means the electricity is shut off, but that’s not really a problem. He knows how to get by without electricity-the power at his house was shut off more often than not anyway. Pulling his switchblade out-more a comfort thing than him being worried he’s in actual danger-he proceeds into the kitchen. 

The first thing that happens is that he hears the sound behind him. He doesn’t have time to turn before there’s an arm around his chest and a knife at his throat.

“Drop the knife.” A voice says in his ear. He does so, his hands shaking, and then the voice comes again. “You’re...you’re just a kid.”

“I’m a teenager.” Glorieux manages, despite his fear. “Not a kid.” 

“Trust me. You’re a kid.” The arm releases him, and Glorieux turns to see a man staring at him-large and muscular, with an overgrown buzzcut. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

“I-I just needed a place to stay.”

“Where are your  _ parents?” _

_ “ _ I assume still running the meth lab in our basement.” Babet grunts in acknowledgment, then opens a cupboard.

“Hungry?” He asks. Glorieux half smiles.

“Starving.”

 

Gueulemer’s eleven when he finds Babet.

It’s an accident, of course it is. Patron Minette is not yet formed, not really-perhaps if it had been, he would have sought them out. Gueulemer is brazen for a child, almost foolishly so.

Instead, he finds Babet-and Glorieux. A child, small for his 13 years where Gueulemer is tall for his eleven-no matter how underfed he is. He’s on the run again, from yet another foster family, and he’s gotten almost too used to picking pockets for a train fare. The first time he sees Glorieux, the boy is standing next to the man Gueulemer will later come to think of as a sort of father-Babet, far more imposing in Gueulemer’s memories of the event than he actually is.

Gueulemer slips his hand into Babet’s pocket on the way past, only to feel the tightening of a vice-like fist around his arm.

“What do you think you’re doing, kid?” 

“I-” Gueulemer starts, and his voice catches in his throat. “Um.”

“You can’t be any older than ten.” Babet says, his eyes widening. “Where are your parents?”

“Gone.” Gueulemer replies, stubbornly. He’s not going to give this strange man any more than that.

“Your hair looks stupid, did you cut it yourself?” The boy says. In time, Gueulemer will come to know Glorieux as his best friend-but now he’s just a nuisance.

“Your  _ face _ looks stupid.”

“Calm down, kids.” Babet sighs. “Look, little girl-“

“Boy.” Gueulemer corrects, gritting his teeth.

“Oh, I’m sorry. My point is, I can’t just let you go. You don’t have anybody you can stay with? Anybody I can bring you to?” Gueulemer shakes his head. 

“You’re not gonna go to the police, are you?” 

“Hah!” Babet says. “Didn’t know you were funny. No, there is no fucking way we are ever- _ ever- _ going to the fucking  _ police. _ ” Gueulemer feels relief for the first time in a while, like a breath of fresh air. Whoever this man is, at least he’s not going to call the cops. He’s not going to send Gueulemer to yet another household with parents who only care about the money-or worse, the cruel ones, the ones who seemed to get off on making him miserable.

“I don’t have to go back?” He says, lifting his head to look at Babet properly. This must be about the time that Babet sees his black eye, because he winces.

“Jesus. No, kid, you don’t. You can come with us.”

“Hey!” Glorieux protests. “You can’t-“

“He has to go somewhere, Glorieux.” 

“Hey, what makes you think I wanna go with you?” Gueulemer growns, yanking his arm from Babet’s grip. “I don’t even know you. I’m fine on my own.”

“When’s the last time you had a proper meal?” Gueulemer glares at him, letting his hair fall back over his eyes.

“None of your business.”

“You’re skinny.” Glorieux observes, reaching out to poke him in the stomach. Gueulemer grabs his arm in an instant, twisting it behind his back.

“Shut up, no I’m not.”

“Hey, hey, break it  _ up. _ ” Babet says, pulling the two apart. But Glorieux grins.

“I like you.” Despite himself, Gueulemer feels a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, I hate you, so I guess we both lose here.” Glorieux rolls his eyes, and playfully punches Gueulemer in the shoulder.

“Asshole.” He says.

“Glorieux!” Babet reprimands.

“Fuck off, old man.”

_ I have my work cut out for me,  _ Babet thinks with a sigh. But looking at the two scrappy kids, he’s not sure he would change it if he could.

 

Underneath his desk is Claquesous’s favorite hiding hole. It’s not the best, not even the safest-that’s the top of his closet. But there’s at least a bit of room underneath his desk, enough for him to curl up in the fetal position. He’s not going to cry this time. He’s not. It was just a slap, anyway, only babies cry over slaps. It wouldn’t even leave a mark.   
Somehow, he’s disappointed about that. Like if it leaves a mark then someone will notice, someone will see through his lies.   
They’ll never see through his lies. He’s too good at telling them.   
“You stupid bitch!” His mom is yelling. He buries his face in his knees, willing himself not to listen, but her words seem to drill themselves into his ears. “You’re so fucking worthless, you can’t even wash dishes right!”   
He clamps his mouth shut, refusing to send back a sarcastic retort-something about “then do them yourself”-it will only make her more angry. And that’s never good, no matter how much better a sarcastic comment will make him feel. It’s not worth it.   
  
“No.” She says. He stands in silence, his own sort of defiance, as she stands up. She still looms over him. “I did not raise my daughter to be some-some-some tranny snowflake! You’re being ridiculous.”   
“I am a boy.” Claquesous says. “And I don’t care how you feel about it.”   
He’s expecting the slap to his face. Even so, it stings like a bitch, and it takes all his energy not to bring his hand up to it. He won’t. He won’t give her that satisfaction. “I’m so sick of you wanting to be all special, wanting all this fucking attention! Who else is doing this? Who are you following?”   
“I’m not following anybody.” He spits. “I’m just being who I am.”   
“This isn’t who you are, I know who you are, and I know you’re not this.”   
“You don’t know a thing about me.”   
He’s not expecting the hand that reaches out to yank on his hair, tugging him to the ground. He’s used to this though, used to even the kicks, and he privately hopes they’ll bruise this time. For his own sake if nothing else, to reassure him that this happened.   
It doesn’t. No bruises show.    
  


 

“Hey Montparnasse! Who taught you how to do eyeliner, pretty boy?”

“Your mum!” He shoots back, to the eye rolling of Claquesous beside him. “She was so impressed by how good I made your dad feel that she-“

“That’s enough.” Brujon says, pulling Montparnasse’s by the arm at the same time as Claquesous starts pushing him towards the stairwell. 

“Come on, a black eye won’t go well with that shirt.”

“That doesn’t even make sense, Sous, how does-“

“I’m trying to make a point.” Claquesous replies, sighing. “You need to control your temper.”

“Or at least pick a fight with someone your size.” Brujon laughs. “You’re just a skinny twink, dude.” Montparnasse glares at him.

“I could have taken him.”

“Yeah, but all three of his buddies too?”

“I miss my fucking knife.” Montparnasse mutters. “Stupid metal detectors ruining everything.” Claquesous nods in agreement.

“Well, until either of you finds a way to sneak a knife past the metal detector, stick to smaller guys.” Brujon says.

“Awwww, little Brujon, looking out for us.” Montparnasse smiles. “He’s all worried.”

“Fucks sake, I’m barely a month younger than you.”

“Itty bitty brujon.” Claquesous adds, smirking.

“ _ Guys. _ ”

 

“I don’t want to see your face right now.”   
“Then-“   
“Get out.” She tells him. “Get out and don’t fucking come back, you cunt.”

“Fine.”    
He walks out of the house then, a barefoot sixteen year old with nothing to his name but the phone in his hand and the clothes he’s wearing.   
Claquesous: come pick me up   
Montparnasse: what happened?   
Claquesous: kicked out    
Montparnasse: be there in five   
Claquesous steps into the shadows and waits. Cars pass, people pass, and not a single one looks toward him.   
Eventually Montparnasse pulls into the driveway, and Claquesous seamlessly moves through the shadows to the passenger side door. He slides in, and Montparnasse peels out of the driveway.   
“Since when do you have your license?”   
“Don’t. Since when do you give a fuck?”   
“I don’t.”   
There’s a long moment of mutual silence, each of them trying to process what the hell just happened.   
“I know a place you can stay.” Montparnasse says, eventually. “I have a friend. His name is Babet.”   
“What does he do?”   
“Steals, murders, occasional dentistry.”   
“What?”   
“I know. I told him he should give it up, but he insists that if he spent all that money of school he’s going to use it.”   
“It was actually more the stealing and murdering part I was concerned with.”   
“You know, I’m seeing that now.” Montparnasse pulls over, and shuts the car off. He turns to Claquesous then, the sharp angles of his face illuminated by the streetlight.   
“Have you ever heard of Patron Minette.”   
“...The gang?”   
“We’re so much more than that.” Montparnasse promises. “We’re a family.”   
“Oh, what, you think I’m gonna join up with a bunch of criminals, just because you promise me a ‘family’? I’m not that weak Montparnasse, and family means nothing to me.” Not anymore.   
“Look, you need a place to stay, don’t you?” He coaxes. “And money. We can give you both of those.”   
“Fine.” Claquesous grumbles.   
“Good. Babet is about a block from here. Let’s go.” He opens the door, and Claquesous raises an eyebrow.   
“We aren’t driving?”   
“This isn’t my car. Now come on.”   
  
He doesn’t trust Babet, not at first. Too tall, too old, too willing to bring a total stranger into his house.   
Claquesous sleeps with a knife that night. ‘Sleeps’ is perhaps a loose term, because he doesn’t sleep. He listens and he waits. Waits for the footsteps outside the door, or the muted arguing that will doubtless be about him, the kind that means he’ll be punished-though in this case, probably just kicked out of Babet’s house.   
He doesn’t hear any of these things. The house is dead silent.

 

That’s because they’re not in the house. Montparnasse and Babet are in the backyard, the glowing tips of their cigarettes the only source of light.

“So.” Babet says. “What’s the situation with this Sous guy? This a temporary sort of deal?”

“His mom kicked him out.” Montparnasse replies. “She’s a real bitch. And he can’t exactly love on his own, not for two more years.”

“Why can’t he stay with you?”

“I never stay in one place long enough. Half the time I’m on Eponine’s couch, other half I’m on yours or I’m roaming the streets.”

“I see your point.” Babet takes a long drag of his cigarette. “He can stay. But I already have three kids staying here, Parnasse.”

“I know. Believe me, if so had any other option...”

“Yeah....poor kid looks like he’s been through hell and back.”

“He has.”

 

When the sun comes up, pink and yellow and drowning his room in early morning sunlight, he sneaks himself to the kitchen. The floor doesn’t creak here, and there are no stairs to worsen the sounds, so it’s almost too easy to get into the kitchen silently. There’s almost nothing in the fridge-nothing that can be eaten without cooking it anyway-but digging in the cupboard yields him some pop tarts.   
“Those strawberry?” He drops the box, turning sharply to see Babet sitting at the table. “I thought Brujon had finished them” Claquesous nods, turning the box so Babet can see the cover, and Babet holds up a hand. “Cool. Toss me one.”    
What is his game, Claquesous wonders. Does he think I’ll miss and then he can get mad?  What will he do if he’s mad?   
Silently, he sets he box of pop tarts in front of Babet, and all but sprints out of the room.   
he doesn’t see Gueulemer peering out the crack in his open door.

  
“Glorieux.” Gueulemer hisses, stepping into his room. That’s the good part of Glorieux being right across the hall, Gueulemer can bug him whenever he likes. “There’s someone  _ here.” _

“Whaddya mean?” Glorieux mumbles, not opening his eyes. He’s gotten even lazier now that he’s fifteen, Gueulemer thinks with a scowl.

“ _ Glooorr. _ I mean there’s someone  _ here.”  _ With a sigh, Glorieux sits up, rolling his eyes.

“Are you talking about that new guy, Claquesous?”

“Long brown hair, quiet, looks like he’s hiding something?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“Oh. What is he doing here?”

“Not sure. Probably the same thing we are. Can I go back to sleep now, Mer?”

“Fine.” Gueulemer replies, rolling his eyes. “But I’m not making you breakfast.”

“I’ll love.”

“You’ll regret it, my scrambled eggs are getting really good.

 

It takes Claquesous a while to warm up to Babet. For his part, Babet doesn’t seem to mind. The problem is that there’s no escaping the man. He’s everywhere-reading on the couch, sitting in the kitchen, checking in on Claquesous hallway through the night. Every time he hears the door open, he holds his breath-and every time it closes again without incident.    
  


The first time he sees Gueulemer, the boy is upside down on the couch (his head hanging off the seat and his legs over the back) and he’s arguing with Brujon.

“I’m just saying you need a haircut.” 

“Fuck off, kid. My hair is fine the way it is.”

“No! It’s greasy and tangled and disgusting. Like-“ He spots Claquesous. “Like, look at his hair. Sure it’s long, but it’s not disgusting. Yours is a rats nest and it’s constantly falling all over your face.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk.” Brujon laughs. “You have to move your hair out of your eyes five times a minute.”

“I know.” Gueulemer says, irritably. “I keep forgetting to cut it.”

“You’re going to cut your own hair again?” Another voice asks from the stairs. Claquesous whips his head around to see Glorieux, half reclined on the stairs and watching with interest. “Gueul, every time you cut your own hair you end up hating it.”

“It does the job.” Gueulemer replies. “And I don’t care that much what it looks like. I’m not a vain bitch like Montparnasse.” Claquesous snorts at this. It’s the truth.

“Language!” Babet calls from the kitchen.

“Fuck off!” Gueulemer replies cheerfully. 

“You’d have to own at least three mirrors to be as vain as Montparnasse.” Claquesous says, half smirking.

“Don’t forget his little makeup mirror.” Brujon grins.

“Plus you’d have to carry around at least one eyeliner at all times.” Glorieux chimes in.

“And some lipstick just in case.” Gueulemer studies Claquesous for a long moment, then flips himself right side up and steps off the couch. He’s taller than Claquesous, despite his young age.

“I’m Gueulemer.” He says. “And I heard you have a cool knife. Even cooler than Babet’s.”

“Claquesous.” Sous replies. “And yeah, but I’m not gonna let a little kid touch it.”

“I’m thirteen!” Gueulemer protests, which kind of proves Claquesous’s point.

“Get back to me when you’ve started puberty.” Claquesous snorts, and Gueulemer rolls his eyes.

“Glor, back me up.” He demands.

“Nah. I’m with Sous.”

“What?” Gueulemer protests. “Come on. I’m thirteen! I want a knife like all of you.”

“Your fists are deadly enough.” Glorieux tells him dryly. 

“You get a knife when you can prove you won’t accidentally kill yourself with it.” Babet says, sticking his head in the living room. “Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes so  _ behave yourselves.  _ Jesus.”

 

Everything is ne day, Claquesous finds Montparnasse asleep on the couch. His first reaction is panic. Babet will be home in a few minutes, and if Montparnasse is still asleep on the couch-   
“Get up.” Claquesous hisses, frantically poking him. Montparnasse hardly stirs. “Get up, you idiot, come on.”   
He hears the lock in the door and is halfway up the stairs before he even realizes it, crouched in the landing and bathed in shadows. He holds his breath as Babet spots Montparnasse-but to his surprise, Babet’s only reaction is a fond smile. He spots Claquesous next, and Sous is rooted to the spot by his gaze.   
“Want a snack, kid?” Babet asks. Claquesous shakes his head, and Babet shrugs. “Kay.” He continues to the kitchen with his groceries, and Claquesous hears him whistling as he puts them away.   
  
He finds his first mask a year later, a simple silvery thing. The instant he slips it on, he feels the comfort of anonymity, of being unrecognizable. Montparnasse whistles.   
“Damn, you look badass.”   
“You never tell me I look badass.” Brujon mutters, flipping off Montparnasse with bloodied fingers. Montparnasse only smiles, as he hides his knife in his heel.   
“Well, you never look badass. It’s not his fault.” Gueulemer chimes in with a smirk. 

The mask is Claquesous’s first treasure stolen from a dead mans hands-but certainly not the last.   
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of shameless fluff, because I'm weak like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for injury and mentions of violence

Babet doesn’t expect any of them to know his birthday. In fact, he’s actively tried to hide it from them-not only because of the jokes about him being old, but also because there’s no point in them knowing it. It’s not like it matters-he’s too old for any sort of party, or celebration, and it’s not like any of them have the money for it. So really, there’s no point. And he’s not disappointed that he’s spending yet another birthday without any acknowledgment. He’s not.

So he’s not angry that he’s woken up by voices in the kitchen at  _ six in the goddamn morning, _ really. He doesn’t ever get to sleep in, why would his birthday be any different? Sighing to himself, he drags himself out of bed to see what they’re fighting about now.

The sight in the kitchen is...definitely not what he was expecting. 

Gueulemer is covered in flour, a streak of butter underneath his eye, and he looks far too cheerful for how messy he is. Claquesous isn’t much better, covered in a mess of flour and what smells like vanilla, but he’s decidedly less cheerful about it. Glorieux is much less a mess than Gueulemer and Claquesous, probably because he looks to have been delegated to dishwashing. There’s no surprise in this; Glorieux can’t cook to save his life. Brujon has eggshell in his hair somehow, and he’s cackling as Gueulemer waves a spoon at him threateningly. Montparnasse, of course, is stood to the side, not a trace of anything on him.

“What’s going on in here?” Babet asks, as all five heads snap towards him.

“I told you to shut up, Brujon.” Gueulemer mutters. “Sorry, Babet. We didn’t mean to wake you.”

“What exactly are you  _ doing, _ anyway?”

“Well...” The five of them glance around at each other, each unwilling to tell him.

“We were making a cake.” Claquesous mumbles, looking at the floor.

“A...a cake.” Babet repeats, dumbfounded.

“Montparnasse found your old driver’s license a while ago.” Gueulemer mutters, crossing his arms and looking away. “We saw that today was your birthday and...we wanted to surprise you. But  _ Brujon _ ruined that.”

“What?” Brujon protests. “How do you know it wasn’t your loud ass voice that woke him up?”

“I’m not the one cackling like a witch-”

“You made me a  _ cake. _ ” Babet says, disbelieving. “I. You made me a birthday cake?” A memory hits him-his two little girls, grinning up at him, his wife holding the cake, her face lit up by the candles-

“Well. It’s not finished yet.” Claquesous says, glancing at the oven. “Hasn’t even cooked, and we were gonna frost it and stuff. We even bought some sprinkles-”

“You  _ bought _ this stuff?” Babet asks, a lump in his throat. 

“Presents too.” Glorieux chimes in. “We bought those too, we thought it wouldn’t mean as much if they were stolen.”

“It was...probably stupid.” Gueulemer mutters. Babet shakes his head, still in shock.

“No, I-I just can’t believe it. I haven’t celebrated my birthday in...almost ten years.”

“That’s because you’re getting old.” Sous says, cracking a grin. Babet rolls his eyes, a grin of his own spreading across his face as he pulls him into a hug. There’s a moment of surprised stiffness on Claquesous’s side, and then he brings his arms up to hug Babet back tentatively.

“Don’t get emotional, old man.” Claquesous manages. “It’s not that big a deal.”

“You’re all great kids.” Babet says, releasing Sous to grab the next closest-Gueulemer as it turns out. “Thank you guys. Really.”

“Of course.” Gueulemer tells him. He’s already almost as tall as him, Babet realises, and he’s only fourteen. They’re all so young-

Montparnasse is the next to be hugged, and he tolerates it with a surprising amount of cheer, even hugging Babet back.

“Happy birthday, old timer.” He says. “Sorry we didn’t buy any candles for your cake, but we would have had to buy out the whole store just to get enough.” Babet laughs, actually laughs, releasing him. 

“I’ll get you for that one.” He says, mock punching him in the arm. He pulls Glorieux into a hug next, grinning widely.

“I hope this is only a once a year thing.” Glorieux tells him, despite the fact that he’s hugging back just as tightly. 

“We’ll see.” Babet replies, squeezing his shoulders and then letting go to hug Brujon. “Is your present to me finally getting a damn haircut?”

“You wish.” He replies. “Happy birthday, Babet.”

  
  


Claquesous isn’t really that surprised to find Gueulemer cutting his hair over the trashcan. He’s not even using a mirror for fucks sake, just snipping it haphazardly.

“Jesus, Gueul.” He sighs. “Parnasse, get in here.”

“What?” Gueulemer protests. “No, don’t get him-”

“What do you want?” Montparnasse asks, poking his head into the kitchen. And then he sees Gueulemer, and shakes his head. “Nope. That’s not happening. Sous, get me a chair.”

“Oh, come on.” Gueulemer complains. “This is fine-”

“I refuse to be seen with somebody that has a rats nest on top of their head. I’m fixing this disaster and you’re going to thank me.” Montparnasse tells him, sternly. Gueulemer sighs dramatically, but sits down in the chair, crossing his arms.

“Hurry up, then.” He mutters. Montparnasse rolls his eyes, but gets to work.

“How attached are you to the emo fringe? Because honestly, this is a  _ travesty. _ Your hair is so nice and thick, and you’ve ruined it.” Montparnasse laments. 

“If you get rid of the fringe I’ll get rid of your  _ face. _ ” Gueulemer threatens.

“Oh, honestly-” He mutters. “Fine, whatever. I can work with it.” Claquesous stifles a laugh at Montparnasse’s theatrics, grinning widely. Brujon steps into the kitchen then, takes one look, and turns around instantly.

“You’re next!” Montparnasse yells after him, but the sound of the door closing indicates he’s already long gone. “One of these days...” He mutters.

Half an hour and many complaints later, Montparnasse steps back, and puts down the scissors.

“Much better.” He says, satisfied. “Gueul almost looks like an actual person now.”

“Fuck you, Parnasse.” Gueulemer mutters, running a hand through his hair. “It’s...really different.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome.” Montparnasse snorts, pulling a mirror out of his pocket. “Take a look.” Gueulemer glances into the mirror, and its impossible to miss the way his eyes widen.

“Yeah, it’s...whatever.” He mutters. “It’s cool, I guess.”

“Oh, what praise.” Montparnasse sighs. “At least you don’t look like a raging dumpster fire anymore.”

“Better that than an arrogant pretty boy.”

“Awww, you think I’m pretty?”

Gueulemer chucks the mirror at him, to much amusement from both Montparnasse and Claquesous.

“What’s this I hear about Gueulemer getting an actual haircut?” Glorieux asks, looking in from the door with a look full of trepidation.

“Fucks sake.” Gueulemer sighs, somehow not seeing the way Glorieux sucks in a breath, his eyes wide.

“Wow.” He says. And then he manages a smirk. “You actually look halfway decent for once.”

“Not you too.” Gueulemer complains. “Sleep with one eye open. All of you.”

“Is that any way to talk to the man who singlehandedly changed your entire look for the better? Because you’re welcome!” Montparnasse calls after his retreating form. Gueul’s only response is to flip him off.

  
  


“Come on, Babet.” Gueulemer complains. “I’m fourteen, that’s old enough to go on a job.”

“The hell it is.” Babet replies. “You’re too young and you’re too impulsive. There’s no way in hell I’m taking you on a job.”

“That’s not fair.” Gueulemer replies. “You take Glorieux and Sous and Parnasse on jobs all the time, I’m the  _ only one _ who has to stay behind.”

“It’s because you’re the baby.” Brujon tells him, not looking up from his show. “Little, itty bitty Gueul.”

“Shut up, Brujon.” Gueulemer replies.

“You do realize how this only helps my point, right?” Babet asks, with a sigh. “Claquesous is much more mature than you, and he’s a lot less impulsive. Montparnasse is...well, he’s certainly something. But he’s less hotheaded than you.”

“Should see him in school.” Brujon chimes in.

“Brujon,  _ nobody is talking to you! _ ” Gueulemer snaps. “Come on, I’m taller than both of them, and I’m strong. And I’m not that impulsive!”

“You’re still a kid, Gueul.”

“So is everyone else! And they still get to go on jobs. I’m not a baby, Babet, I can handle it.” Babet stares at him for a long moment.

“The first time-and I mean  _ the first time- _ you don’t listen to what I tell you to do, or you do anything to make me doubt that you can handle it-I’m pulling the plug and making you leave. Understand?”

“Does that mean I get to go?” Gueulemer asks, eyes wide. “Yes! I promise, you’re not going to regret it!” He sprints out of the room, and Babet sits down with a sigh.

“I’m definitely going to regret it.” He tells himself.

“Probably.” Brujon agrees.

“Brujon, don’t you have homework or something?”

“Oh yeah, definitely.”

“Then shouldn’t you be doing that?”

“Nah.”

“ _ Brujon. _ ”

“Fine, fine, whatever. Jesus.”

 

“Glor!” Gueulemer says, jumping onto his bed. With a sigh, Glorieux puts down his phone.   
“Yeah?” He asks. “What, did the wiggles come out with a new song?”

“I don’t even care what you say, because! Babet finally agreed to let me go on a job!” He grins widely. But Glorieux frowns.

“What? He  _ did? _ ”

“Yeah! I’ve only been asking for like, years, but he’s  _ finally _ going to let me!”

“And...when is this job?” He asks, his forehead wrinkling in the way it does when he’s concerned.

“In a couple days. I...thought you’d be happier about this.” Gueul crosses his arms. “What’s your problem?”

“What? Nothing. No problem.”   
“No, you’re acting weird. Something’s up.”

“Nothing’s ‘up’, Gueul.”

“Come on, tell me. What is it.”

“Fucks sake, Gueulemer, it’s nothing.”

“Come onnn.” He pokes Gloriuex in the side. “You’ve got a problem. Spill.”

“Mer. Drop it.” Glor warns.

“Not until you tell me.” Gueul pokes him in the side again. “Come on, you’re acting all pissy.”

“ _ Stop it. _ ” Glorieux snaps, shoving his hand away. “Christ, I don’t even care anymore if you go get yourself killed on some stupid job!” Gueulemer is silent for a long moment, staring at him. He can feel his cheeks reddening, but he doesn’t look away, as if daring Gueulemer to say something.

“So that’s the problem.” Gueulemer says, attempting a smile. “You’re  _ worried _ about me.”

“Am not.” Glorieux shoots back, weakly. It’s a lie and they both know it. 

“I’ll be fine, Glor, promise. I’ll come back and keep bugging you forever.”

“And if you don’t?” Glorieux asks him, standing up. “If you do something stupid and impulsive and you-” He groans, burying his face in his hands. 

“That’s not going to happen! I’m not  _ that _ impulsive, and I know how to take care of myself, for fucks sake. Why the hell are you so worried? Why is everyone  _ so fucking worried? _ ”

“Because you’re my best friend, Mer!” Glorieux spits. “And I don’t want you to get yourself killed!”

“What, and you think I don’t worry about you when you go out on jobs?” Gueul asks him, throwing his arms in the air. “But I don’t act like a baby about it!”

“Fuck you, Gueulemer. Just-get out.”

“Fine.” He replies, his tone dripping venom. 

 

Glorieux leaves that night. Gueulemer doesn’t know where he goes when he leaves like this. And he doesn’t care. He  _ doesn’t. _

 

“You know, Glorieux, between you and Montparnasse, my house has too many criminals running in and out.” Eponine tosses him a pillow, frowning.

“Don’t forget your parents.” He laughs, but there’s no mirth in it. 

“They’re not here enough to count.” She replies. “Eat something from the fridge if you want, I don’t care. Just don’t wake up Gav or Zelma, and don’t destroy the house.”

“Thanks, Ponine. Really.” He tells her. “I owe you.” She rolls her eyes.

“Well, you brought chinese takeout, so we can call it good.” She smiles halfheartedly. “Night, Glor. Lock up behind you if you leave.”

“You got it.”

He doesn’t sleep. 

 

He stays for two days, two days of takeout and shitty sitcoms on Eponine’s couch. It’s fun, easy, and the two never argue. But.

But something is missing.

It’s about two in the morning when he realises it. Eponine is passed out on the couch next to him, takeout boxes strewn around the living room, and it’s calm. Peaceful.

Calm and peaceful isn’t what he wants. He wants something to challenge him, someone to bicker with and tease, someone to argue with and laugh with. He wants-

He doesn’t let himself finish the thought, doesn’t let himself put a name to who he wants, what he wants, but he knows. He knows where he needs to go.

 

Gueulemer’s room is empty when he gets there, and his stomach sinks. There’s a sick feeling of dread, tying his stomach in knots. He’s too late, something’s already happened to Gueul, he’s-

“Looking for Gueulemer?” He spins around, hand going to his knife. It’s Claquesous. His arms are crossed, and his mouth is twisted into something resembling a sneer. 

“Sous.” He says. “Where is he. Is he....is he okay?”

“Oh, he’s fine.” Sous rolls his eyes. “He’s been moping for days-and refusing to admit that he’s moping. And he hasn’t asked after you, if that’s what you want to hear. In fact, he’s very pointedly ignoring any and all mentions of you.” Claquesous sighs heavily. “What the hell were you thinking, Glorieux? You two and your petty bickering, I swear to god-”

“Where is he, Sous?”

“One of these days, something is going to happen.” Sous meets his gaze with a level eye. “One of these days you’ll leave, and he’ll do something stupid and impulsive and get hurt. And I guess you’ll be sorry then.”

“Sous.” Glorieux grabs his shoulder. “ _ Where is Gueulemer. _ ”

“He’s sleeping in your bed. Just like he did last night.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t want to think about that. “I...I really am sorry, Sous, I didn’t mean-”

“Save it.” Sous waves a hand. “It’s not me you should be apologizing to anyway.

 

Gueulemer is asleep in the middle of Glorieux’s bed, splayed out across the mattress. In sleep he looks peaceful, his limbs curved loosely and his face soft. He looks like the teenager he is, not like the snarky, angry boy that Glorieux knows so well. He turns in his sleep, a lock of hair falling over his forehead, and Glorieux swallows hard. Of its own accord, his hand reaches out to brush it off, but he stops himself.

“Gueulemer.” He whispers. “Mer.”

Gueulemer is awake in an instant, his hand at Glorieux’s throat, pinning him against the wall. His expression is fierce, hardened, and Glorieux doesn’t know which is more beautiful-the fierce anger he sees now, or the peaceful softness of a moment ago. And then Gueulemer blinks, recognizes him, his face relaxing.

“Glor.” He releases him a bit too abruptly, and Glorieux stumbles a bit.

“What a welcome.” He says, dryly. And then, before Gueulemer can say anything, he’s stepped forward to throw his arms around him tightly. 

“Oh.” Gueulemer says, surprised. “Okay. Are you...what’s happening?”

“Nothing.” Glorieux half laughs, releasing him. “You’re dreaming it.” Gueulemer rolls his eyes, and then seems to recognize where he is.

“Oh, um. Your-your bed is bigger, and you weren’t using it, so-”

“You missed me.” He teases. 

“No, I definitely didn’t-”

“It’s okay, Mer, it can be our little secret.”

“ _ Glor. _ I didn’t  _ miss _ you.”

“Suuuure you didn’t.”

 

“Be careful, Gueul.” Glorieux tells him, grabbing his arm. Gueul turns to face him, half grinning.

“It’ll be fine, Glo, I promise. I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t get yourself stabbed.” Claquesous says, seriously. “It’ll be a bitch to sew up.”

“Good to know you care so much. I’ll see you guys.”

“Gueul.” Glorieux says. “I...”

“Yeah?” Gueul says, glancing at Babet. “We gotta go.” He shakes his head.

“Just. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

 

“Stop pacing.” Montparnasse says, tiredly. “They’re both  _ fine. _ ”

“I know.” Glorieux says, turning on his heel to walk the other way. 

“Then  _ stop it. _ ” Claquesous snaps. “You’re making  _ me _ anxious.”

“I can’t help it!” Glorieux replies, frustrated. “What if-”

“Don’t start.” Brujon moans. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“He’s  _ fourteen. _ ” Glorieux hisses. “What the hell was Babet  _ thinking _ ?”

“Who knows?” Montparnasse replies, tiredly. “But you pacing and worrying isn’t going to do anything.

“I-well- _ ugh. _ ” He throws his hands in the air, and flops down on the couch next to Claquesous, frowning.

“Brujon, would you shut off-whatever fucking game that is.”

“Hell no, it’s-”

“ _ Shut it off!” _ Claquesous, Montparnasse, and Glorieux yell in the same breath. Brujon switches it off, and the room fills with a heavy silence.

“What if-” Glorieux starts.   
“Oh my  _ god _ . I need a fucking cigarette.” Montparnasse mutters, standing up.

He slams the door behind him.

 

It’s two more hours before Babet and Gueulemer stumble through the door, bloodied and laughing to each other. Glorieux vaults off the couch, his eyes running over Gueulemer. He seems fine-the blood isn’t his (or if it is, he doesn’t know where it’s coming from) His knuckles are bruised, but that’s pretty standard for Gueulemer. After a moment, he looks at Babet too. He’s fine.

“How did it go?” He asks.  _ He’s fine he’s safe he’s okay he’s okay he’s safe he’s okay oh my god he’s home he’s safe- _

“Pretty fucking great.” Gueul laughs. “Oh man, you shoulda seen it-there was this guy, he had a knife and he was gonna get Babet and I took him out with one punch.”

“You shoulda seen the kid.” Babet agrees. “He’s a natural.” 

“It was  _ awesome! _ ” Gueul grins. He’s bloody and bruised and he’s grinning so widely that his cheeks might split from it. Glorieux laughs from pure relief, all the worry and fear from the night sliding from him.

“Gueul,  _ please _ get Glorieux out of here. He’s been all worried and insufferable all night.” Claquesous says, rolling his eyes.

“I have not!” Glor protests, making Gueul smile.

“Oh, I’m sure he was-he’s such a mother hen.” Gueul agrees, and steps forward to grab Glorieux’s arm, his skin burning under the touch. “I told you I’d be okay.”

“I never doubted it.” Glorieux lies. Rolling his eyes, Gueulemer lets go of his arm, and he feels a little less warm, a little less whole.

“I’m gonna go take a shower and crash. Night guys.”

“Night.” They all chorus. Glorieux watches with a strange lump in his throat.  _ He’s okay, _ he thinks,  _ he’s okay. _

On his way to bed, he peers into Gueulemer’s room. He’s asleep, looking too large for his bed, his limbs splayed awkwardly. Smiling, he closes the door. 

He sleeps better that night than he has in a week.

 

Montparnasse slams his locker door. He’s too old for this shit. This high school is going to be the death of him, he knows it-the only question is when.

“Why are you so mopey?” Eponine asks him, rolling her eyes. “There’s no need for the dramatics.”

“Fuck off, Ponine.” Montparnasse sighs. “If anyone is dramatic here, it’s you.”

“All right, you can keep telling yourself that.” She elbows him in the side. “Seriously. Whats up?”`

“I’m just fucking sick of this place.” He mutters. “I’d like to take a match to the entire building. Or a blowtorch.

“God, if that isn’t a mood.” She sighs. “Well, wanna ditch? Take off and get some ice cream or something? Maybe some candy?”

“You know neither of us have the money for that.”

“Who said anything about  _ buying _ it?” She grins at him, and he finds himself grinning back.

“Lets go, then.”

 

Half an hour later, they’re sitting on Eponine’s back porch, passing an ice cream carton between them.

“I’m just saying,” She says, taking a drag of the cigarette she bummed off of him, “It’s not fair for her to be ridiculously pretty  _ and _ ridiculously nice! Like, how is that even supposed to  _ work?” _

“You’ve got it bad for her.” Montparnasse tells her, reaching for the ice cream. “Like, you’re hardcore pining.”

“Don’t remind me.” She groans. He rolls his eyes.

“Chill out, ‘Ponine, just ask her out or something.”

“What? No way. She’s like, a goddess, and she’s so smart and pretty and sweet and she let me borrow her chemistry notes and Gav and Zelma  _ love _ her and she’s just....she’s incredible.”

“I’m not seeing a problem here.”

“The problem is that _I’m_ very not incredible, Parnasse.” He shrugs, taking a long drag of his cigarette.    


“Maybe. But maybe she thinks you’re incredible.” Eponine snorts, rolling her eyes. Turning to rest her back against the porch railing, she props her legs up in his lap, closing her eyes.

“Hey, Parnasse.” She says, absently. “You ever think about the future?” He freezes. His thoughts of the future usually involve him dead by twenty, bleeding out in some back alley, a hasty burial, no gravestone or wake or obituary. No memory of his life. 

“I try not to.” He says, eventually.

“I like to.” She sighs. “I like to think about getting away from this town, getting away from my parents, taking Gav and Zelma with me. I like to imagine burning this place to the ground.”

“We could do it.” He tells her. “Run away and never look back.”

“You wouldn’t be able to.” She replies. “I can’t see you leaving Patron Minette.” He half smiles, half grimaces, because she’s right. Patron Minette is like family to him. And he can’t imagine ever leaving his family.

“I couldn’t.” He agrees. “But you’d never be able to leave that group-what do you call them?”

“Officially, they’re Les Amis.” Eponine sighs. “Unofficially, they’re ‘those dumbasses that I love’.”

“Yeah. You’d never be able to leave them behind.”

“I know.” She’s silent for a long moment. “I guess it’s just nice to think about, sometimes.” He nods in agreement, and then the conversation is dropped.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff, fluff, fluff. All fluff.   
> Tw for some mentions of injury and violence but that’s pretty typical for pm

“Enjolras.” Montparnasse sneers. Claquesous’s lip curls.

“Montparnasse.” Enjolras replies, stiffly. “Hello.”

“Heard that you beat up Grantaire.” Montparnasse cocks an eyebrow, crossing his arms. Enjolras lets his composure crack, his face confused and shocked.

“What?”

“He showed up to school this morning with a black eye.” Montparnasse hums. “I was almost impressed.”

“I-excuse me.” Enjolras says, pushing his way past and hurrying down the hall. Montparnasse rolls his eyes.

“Least it would make him interesting if he had beaten someone up.” He mutters.

“It would make him an asshole.” Brujon replies.

“Like I said. Interesting.”

  
  


“Well if you’re so smart-“

“Oh, I am, at least I finished the seventh grade-“

“That’s a low fucking blow, Glorieux, and you know it.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Well then  _ fuck you, _ if that’s how you’re going to be! Sorry my  _ mummy and daddy _ didn’t put me through some fancy private schooling-”

“Go fuck yourself, Mer.” The door slams behind Glorieux, and Claquesous rolls his eyes at the sound, hiding a wince. 

“ _ ASSHOLE! _ God, you always just fucking  _ leave- _ “

“What are you fighting about  _ this _ time?” Claquesous asks.

“Fuck you too, Sous.” Sous crosses his arms and waits, as Gueulemer flops onto the couch overdramatically. “I…don’t even remember how it started.” He admits. “All I know is he called me dumb.”

“You don’t think you’re overreacting just a bit?” Montparnasse asks, dryly. 

“No, I’m not. Fuck you.”

“The swearing doesn’t make you sound cool, you know, just like a kid trying to sound older.”

“ _ Ugh, _ you’re all the fucking  _ worst. _ ” Gueulemer complains, covering his face with his hands. After a long, long moment of silence, he asks in a quiet voice that’s almost casual. “When do you think he’s coming back?”

“Worried he won’t forgive you?” Babet asks, amused.

“Just want to know how many hours of peace and quiet I’ll get.”

“I’d be surprised if he comes back tonight.” Babet answers, honestly. 

“Good. Fine. Whatever. He can fucking stay gone for all I care.” Gueulemer stalks out of the room, and Claquesous looks up at Montparnasse, amused and exasperated.

“Are those two  _ ever _ going to get over their petty shit?”

“I doubt it. I really do.”

  
  


It’s a quiet morning, calm. Calm enough that Montparnasse is dragging Claquesous and Gueulemer out with him, despite their various protests-Brujon and Glorieux had managed to get out of it by being on a job, to endless irritation.

“It’s  _ cold. _ ” Gueulemer complains. Montparnasse shrugs.   
“Should’ve brought a coat.”

“We  _ should’ve _ stayed  _ home. _ ” Claquesous mutters. He doesn’t like how crowded the street is, how many people are walking by in huge coats that could conceal  _ anything. _

“You two are just allergic to fun.” Montparnasse hums, not fazed in the slightest by the complaints. “We’re almost there.”

It’s then that Claquesous feels a hand slip into his pocket. He reacts without thinking, grabbing the arm to twist it behind their back. Montparnasse and Gueul cover him as he drags them to the alley between two stores they’re passing.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing.” Claquesous hisses, pressing an arm against their throat. “How dare you try to pickpocket  _ me- _

_ “ _ Sous, stop.” Montparnasse says, suddenly. “Biz?” Claquesous rips the hood off the strangers head, their hair curling wildly to their shoulders.

“Oh my god. Bizarro.” He says. She smiles, but it’s filled with stress and fatigue. She’s thinner, gaunt.

“Miss me?” She asks.

 

“Wait, okay. So you used to go to school together?” Gueulemer asks.

“Till Biz disappeared.” Sous replies, glaring at her in the way that means he’s not actually mad, only acting it. Biz seems to know this too, because all she does is grin at him.

“Sorry, Sous. Didn’t think you’d miss me so much.”

“Only missed your knife collection.” He replies. “Shit, Biz, where’ve you been?”

“Oh, around.” She says airily-but her disheveled appearance doesn’t match her tone. “Mostly on the streets. Got kicked out of my house, I didn’t think it was worth it to come back to school.”

“So you’re still living on the streets?” Montparnasse says in disbelief.

“Well, I almost got put in foster care a couple times-” Gueulemer winces. “But I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“You’re coming with us.” Claquesous says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We have the space.”

“We don’t-” Gueul starts, but Claquesous shoots him a silencing look.

“She’s coming with us.”

Gueulemer only nods.

 

“Bizarro?” Babet asks, in disbelief. “Holy shit, Zarbi, where have you  _ been? _ ”

“Do we have to go through this again?” She sighs. “Yadda yadda kicked out, yadda yadda on the streets, yadda yadda escaped foster care. Tried to pickpocket Sous, now I’m here.”

“Shit.” Babet breathes. “Well. We rearrange some rooms, we should have enough space for you to stay here.”

“...What do you mean by rearranging rooms.” Gueulemer asks, suspiciously. “Please don’t tell me you’re gonna make me room with Sous.”

“Of course not. I’m going to put you in with Glorieux.”

“That’s  _ worse. _ You-you see how that’s  _ worse, _ right?”

“I don’t care if you kill each other, just don’t do it in front of me.”

  
  


Montparnasse opens his locker door, glaring at nothing. He fucking hates everything about this place-every teacher, every student, every-

“Well you look like you’re in a good mood.” He jumps, accidentally hitting his head against the top of the locker. 

“Fucking  _ shit, eso realmente jode mierda santa-”  _ He slams the locker door, ready to curse out whoever the hell is there.

It’s Jehan Prouvaire, the poet of the les amis. They’re grinning up at him, all bright red hair and freckles, and his anger drains away as he gapes.

“I-what do you want?”

“What, am I not allowed to talk to you?” They tease. “Have I done something to offend you?”

“Do you know who I  _ am? _ ” Montparnasse hisses, glancing around the hallway. 

“Oh yes, Montparnasse. I know who you are.” Their eyes are big, accentuated by some dark eyeliner, and he’s not sure how he didn’t know that their eyes are darker than any he’s ever seen.

“Then you should know better.” He warns. “You flirt with danger, Prouvaire.”

“Ah, good, I was hoping you’d pick up on the flirting.” He shakes his head, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a smile.

“You really shouldn’t be talking to me.” 

“Just try and stop me.” He picks up his bag with a roll of his eyes. “We have math class together, you know.”        

“I’m aware.” He’s watched them from the back of the room more times than he’s willing to admit, wondered at what they were doodling in the margins of their notes. They’re very fond of glitter pens.

He thinks maybe he notices them a bit too much.

“You’ve never spoken to me.” They accuse him.   
“I never realised you would want me to.” He replies, confused. They roll their eyes, but there’s a grin on their mouth (which, holy fuck, is painted the softest shade of pink he’s ever seen)

“I’ll see you in math class.” They turn, apparently not seeing the way he stares after them.

  
  


“-parnasse. Earth to parnasse.”

“Hm?” He asks, tearing his gaze away from where Jehan is laughing at something one of their friends said.

“Fucking hell.” Sous rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a  _ crush. _ ”

“Fuck you, of course I don’t.” Montparnasse flips him off. “Don’t be stupid.

“Reeeeaallly?” Brujon asks. “Because you haven’t listened to a damn word we’ve said all lunch.”

“Not my fault you guys are boring.” Montparnasse sniffs dismissively. “I never listen to a word out of your mouths.”

“You’d better not have a crush.” Sous says, his eyes dark despite the quirk of his eyebrow. “Because getting  _ feelings _ for that tiny, redheaded poet, might just be the worst thing you ever do.”

“I don’t.” Montparnasse grits his teeth. “I just find them interesting.”

“Interesting is one word for it.” Brujon snorts.

“They’ve got more personality in their little finger than you’ve got in your whole body.” Montparnasse jeers at him. 

“He’s not wrong.” Claquesous agrees. “It’s not a high standard to live up to.”

“You’re both assholes.” Brujon fumes.

  
  


“Babet.” Montparnasse says, slamming his bag down. “Please,  _ please,  _  tell me you’ve got a job. Anything.”

“I might have something.” Babet replies, setting down the dish he’s washing. “Was gonna ask you and Sous if you wanted it.”

“Anything but recon.”

“You’re in luck, not recon. Just one thing.”

“Sure. What?”

“Take Gueul with you.”

“What?  _ Why? _ ”

“I won’t be able to hold his hand forever, and I think the three of you could be a good team. Plus, the kid’s strong.”

“I guess that much is true” Parnasse sighs. “ _ Fine. _ I’ll go let Sous and Gueul know. Thanks Babet.”

“Course.”

 

“Long time no see, Biz.” Brujon says, putting his feet up on the coffee table.

“And yet you haven’t changed a bit.” She laughs.

“Were you expecting me to?’   
“Not even a little. How is everything?”

“It’s very crowded lately.” He frowns. “Right now it’s me, Sous, Gueul, Glor, Babet, Parnasse sometimes, and now you.”

“Shit.” She whistles.

“Yeah.”

“They’re good people though, right?”

“Eh. Well, you know Montparnasse. Too busy looking pretty and crushing on every pretty person he sees to care about anything else.”

“Sounds about right.” She agrees. “And Sous? How is he?”

“Better.” Brujon says, after a moment. “Now that he’s not living with that psycho bitch. The guy’s ruthless, Biz. And dead fucking silent. The other night he almost gave me a heart attack because he was sitting downstairs in one of his  _ masks. _ It was like, three in the morning!”

“So same old Sous, too. Interesting. How about those other two, Gueulemer and Glorieux?”

“Well. Glor is...something. He’s pretty witty, and it pisses Gueulemer off a lot. He’s kinda funny, I guess. Strong enough, too.”

“And Gueulemer?”

“Gueul is a baby. He’s only fourteen. He’s pretty fucking strong, though. And he has the worst temper I’ve ever seen.”

“Fourteen isn’t that young.” Bizarro muses. 

“Younger than any of us were. And he met Babet when he was eleven.”

“Oh,  _ damn. _ ”

  
  


**Eponine: hey parnasse**

**Montparnasse: make it quick ponine im busy**

**Eponine: stay away from jehan. I dont want them getting mixed up in pm shit**

**Montparnasse: you dont think i tried**

**Montparnasse: you should tell them to stay away from me**

**Eponine: I tried. they didnt really listen**

**Montparnasse: why does that not surprise me**

  
  


“Montparnasse, stop checking your damn eyeliner and put the phone away.” Gueulemer says, rolling his eyes.

“Fuck you, I’m texting Eponine.”

“Okay so stop texting Eponine pictures of your eyeliner and put the damn phone away.” Montparnasse flips him off, shoving the phone in his pocket.

“Anything yet?” Claquesous shakes his head.

“No.” He says, a borrowed voice coming out of his mouth. Montparnasse doesn’t recognize it. It’s deeper than his natural one, with a bit of a british accent. He wonders who’s voice he’s mimicking. “No movement. No anything.”

“Thought Babet said this  _ wouldn’t  _ be boring.” Gueulemer mutters.

“You need to learn some patience, Gueulemer.” Even with this borrowed voice, he still has that lilting tone he takes when he’s content. 

“I’ve been patient. But we’ve been here for  _ hours.  _ I’m starting to think they’re never going to show.”

“It’s barely been an hour, Gueulemer.” Montparnasse says. Gueulemer’s impatience would be irritating if it wasn’t so amusing. 

“Look, I was promised I’d get to punch someone. And-“

“Shut up.” Claquesous says, his voice losing its lilting tone (but none of the voice he’s mimicking-he really is good) “We’ve got company.”

“Be more cliche, Sous, I dare you.” Gueulemer half smirks. Montparnasse can see the adrenaline coursing through him, in the twitching of his fingers and the grin that spreads across his face.

“Let’s go.”

  
  


It’s nearly three AM when they stumble back into the house, the three of them bloodied and bruised. Babet is sitting on the couch, idly doing a crossword and trying to look like he isn’t worried. 

“I call first shower.” Gueulemer mutters, and trudges down the hallway. Meanwhile, Claquesous and Montparnasse collapse on the couch. Claquesous has a bleeding lip, and a black eye. Montparnasse’s knuckles are scraped and bruised, and the faintest shadow of a bruise shows on his cheekbone.

“How did it go?” Babet asks.

“Pretty much according to plan.” Montparnasse replies, closing his eyes. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.” Babet nods, relieved.

“Good.”

“Biz in with Brujon now, then?”

“Yup. You staying here tonight, Montparnasse?”

“Yeah, probably crash on the couch.”

“I’ll grab you a blanket.” He stands up, pausing almost imperceptibly to look at the two kids.  _ They’re so young _ , he thinks, but doesn’t voice. Montparnasse reaches his foot out to kick Claquesous in the ankle, and Babet turns to get him a blanket with a smile.

  
  


Glorieux is asleep, his body curled tightly into a ball. The blanket is twisted around his ankles, his face frowning, and Gueulemer frowns to himself. With a sigh, he steps towards his own bed-a small twin that Babet had somehow picked up the day Biz had arrived. He missteps, the floor creaking under his heel, and he hears the bed creak as Glorieux sits up.

“Mer?” He asks, his voice crusted with sleep.

“Hey.” Gueulemer whispers. “Sorry, Glor.”

“S’okay. How was the job?” He punctuates this with a yawn, loud enough that it almost makes Gueulemer laugh. 

“It was fine.”

“You’re hurt...”

“Just a couple bruises, promise. It’s nothing.”

“Come here.” Gueulemer sits on the edge of his bed with a sigh as Glorieux takes his arm, inspecting the bruised knuckles, and then his hand travels up to the bruise along Gueul’s jawbone. He shivers, and tries to convince himself it’s just because of Glor’s cold fingers.

“I’m okay.” He repeats. Glorieux’s fingers press into the skin of his his jaw a little harder.

“Where else are you hurt?” He asks, quietly.

“Ribs.” Gueulemer replies, lifting his shirt to reveal the bruises. Glorieux hisses, his hand going to the area almost immediately.

Gueulemer isn’t sure whether Glorieux’s touch is freezing or burning him, but wherever his fingers touch the feeling follows.

“I’m fine, Glor. It’s just a couple bruises.”

“Did you get them?” Glorieux asks, quietly.

“I got them. Got them good.”

“ _ Good.” _ He pulls his hands back, and Gueulemer misses the warmth of him all at once.

He stands up silently, staring at Glorieux for a long moment.

“Goodnight, Glorieux.” He says softly.

“Goodnight Mer.”

  
  
  


“Babet.” Sous says idly, looking up from his phone.

“Hmm?” Babet hums, still looking through his newspaper.

“I’m almost eighteen.”

“I’m aware.” Babet says cautiously, lowering his newspaper. “What of it?”

“Well, I was thinking....I’m going to move out. Babet nods, and folds up the newspaper, to look Claquesous in the eye gravely.

“I figured this day was coming. Montparnasse going with you?”

“Yeah. We were gonna get a place together.” 

“Makes sense.” Babet agrees. “Well, let me know if you need any help. I know a few landlords. Could work you out some kind of deal.”

“Will do.” Claquesous smiles, standing up. “Thanks, dad.” 

He’s gone from the room before Babet can process what he’s said, or even be sure he’s said it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for some alcohol and drinking, violence, injury, gambling. Please let me know if I've missed anything, really.

Claquesous’s door opens in the middle of the night. 

“Sous.” Montparnasse says, from the door.

“What do you want, Parnasse?” He asks with a sigh, putting down his phone. It’s a song and dance they do, even after a whole year of this. He knows what Montparnasse is going to do, what he’s going to say.

“You know.” He closes the door behind him, as Claquesous sits up.

It takes Montparnasse two steps to cross the room, grab Claquesous by the collar, and press their lips together firmly. Claquesous makes a sound of surprise at the suddenness, but doesn’t object, wrapping his arms around Montparnasse’s neck to deepen the kiss. It’s biting, almost cruel, and Claquesous is breathless with it.

“Fucking hell, Parnasse.” He swears, when Montparnasse breaks the kiss. “Not that I’m complaining, but what the hell was  _ that _ about?” Montparnasse only grins, his lips painted bright red, and Claquesous is sure that red is smeared all across his mouth. He can’t really bring himself to care.

“Just having some fun.” He replies.

“Well, don’t stop on my account.” Claquesous replies. And then a thought occurs to him. “Hm. I don’t suppose this could have anything to do with your newfound crush on the poet?” With an intensity that startles Claquesous, Montparnasse surges forward, kissing him again.

“I don’t.” He says. “Have a crush. On Jehan Prouvaire.”

“Don’t know why you would assume I care.” Claquesous says, biting his lip as Montparnasse’s lips move to his neck. “I have no problem being a rebound. None at all.”

“Christ, would you shut the hell up?” Montparnasse mutters.

“And exactly how likely do you think that is?”

“Oh, I’m sure I can find a way to make you.”

 

“ _ Babet! _ ” Brujon complains. “We’re out of poptarts!”   
“Have you tried looking up your butt?” Gueulemer replies lazily from his spot on the couch.

“That doesn’t even make sense, Gueul.”

“Your mom doesn’t make sense.”

“Hah, jokes on you, my mom is  _ dead. _ ”

“Oh, same. Twinsies.”

“You are both very strange people.” Glorieux says, rolling his eyes.

“Your mom’s a strange people.”

“Gueulemer, one more your mom joke and I’ll wipe that grin off your face.” Claquesous threatens.

“Oh, come on, Sous. Glor? A little help?”

“I’ll only protect you from what you don’t deserve.” Gueulemer flips him off, and raises his voice.

“Par _ nasse!  _ Your boyfriend is  _ threatening me! _ ” 

“Not my boyfriend, and I don’t fucking care!” Montparnasse calls from the kitchen.

“Fine.” Gueulemer sighs, dramatically. “Go ahead then. Do your worst. Tell that stray dog I saw the other day that I love him.” Claquesous steps towards Gueulemer, only to nudge his head.

“Get up, fucker. Other people want to use the sofa.”

“Then maybe other people shouldn’t be  _ assholes, _ ” Gueul says, but moves anyway so Claquesous can sit down. “I’m hungry.”

“ _ We know. _ ” Glorieux, Claquesous, and Brujon all say in the same breath.

“Well! I would cook something but I’ve been banned from using the stove because  _ someone, _ ” He glares at Claquesous, “Forgot to mention that there was a plate in the oven.”

“I didn’t know you were using it.” Sous rolls his eyes. “You’re supposed to check before you preheat, you know.”

“It’s still your fault.” Gueulemer says, crossing his arms. 

“Whatever you say.”

“Where’s Babet, anyway?” Montparnasse asks, stepping out of the kitchen. 

“Uhh. Good question.” Brujon says, sitting up. “I actually haven’t seen him all day.”

“Me either.” Sous frowns.

“I saw him.” Gueulemer says, averting his eyes. “This morning. Asked him where he was going, and he wouldn’t tell me. But he seemed upset.”

“Shit.” Claquesous breathes.   
“But...where would Babet go, if he was upset?” Glorieux asks, and Claquesous and Montparnasse share a look.

“You don’t think....” Montparnasse starts.

“He might have.” Brujon shakes his head. “Damnit, Babet.” Gueulemer sees comprehension dawning on Glorieux’s face, and he hates it. 

“What’s going on? Am I the only one who doesn’t know?”

“It used to be,” Sous says, heavily, “When Babet was upset, he’d go and gamble.”

“Oh, shit.” Gueulemer breathes. “Wait, how come I didn’t know that?”   
“Because you were a kid and we didn’t want to tell you.” 

“Well, where would he be gambling?”

“I think I know.” Montparnasse says grimly.

 

Thenardier’s tavern is dark, and dirty. Everything smells like smoke, Claquesous thinks, looking around with distaste. He hates smoke. It smells like Montparnasse on his bad days, and it smells like Gueulemer trying to hide his stupid cancer sticks as if they don’t all know he smokes them. As if Babet hasn’t told him that sixteen is too young, as if Montparnasse doesn’t take any cigarettes he finds on Gueulemer away (though actually, that might be more for Montparnasse’s benefit, come to think of it.)

Babet is at the table in the corner, with a hand of cards and a beer.

“Shit.” Brujon mumbles. “Goddamnit, Babet.” Montparnasse is the first to stalk forward, tapping Babet’s shoulder.

“Babet. Come on.” He says. Babet shrugs the hand off, scowling.

“Fuck off, kid. Go home.” 

“You wouldn’t take him away from us, now would you?” Thenardier grins weaselly. His teeth are yellow and crooked, and Claquesous can smell his breath from feet away. 

“Yeah, Babet deserves a night out with the boys.” Says the man next to Thenardier-Claquesous doesn’t recognize him but his lip still curls in distaste.

“Babet, please.” Gueulemer says, stepping forward.

“Why the hell did they bring you? You’re just a kid.” Thenardier says. Gueulemer’s eyes flash with anger as he starts forward, but Glorieux and Brujon grab his arms at the same time.

“You shouldn’t have come here, guys.” Babet sighs. “Go home. Please.”

“Not without you.” Claquesous tugs on his arm and miraculously, Babet gets up. 

“Wait, no-” Thenardier starts. Montparnasse flashes him a menacing grin.

“Sorry. We just prefer not to be seen with the likes of you. I’m sure you understand.” The words are dripping venom, and when he turns away, Thenardier is silent as they all walk out the door.

  
  
  


“Good morning, Montparnasse.”    
“Morning.” He mumbles in Jehan’s general direction, putting his head down on his desk. 

“Not quite an early bird then?” They ask, and he hears the smile in their voice. In answer, he flips them off, and he hears them burst into peals of startled laughter. He raises his head to look at them as they sit on the edge of his desk. “Did you do the homework?”

“Got the answers online.”

“Mmm, smart.” Jehan says appreciatively. Their fingers are tapping against his desk-Jehan Prouvaire is never still, that’s something he’s learned very quickly. But there’s a shadow on their knuckles, an all too familiar sort that makes him reach out and grab their hand. Sure enough-bruised knuckles.

“How on earth did you do that?” He murmurs. 

“I don’t tolerate my friends being hurt.” Their smile is sharp, almost dangerous, but their eyes are bitter and angry.

“You are a very strange little bird.” He murmurs. They lean forward until their face is inches from his, grinning. 

“Would you like me if I wasn’t?” In one fluid motion, they hop off his desk, to return to theirs. They don’t look back. He doesn’t look away.

  
  


Gueul glances at the door, then back to the stairs, and motions for Glorieux to follow him. The strawberry wine is on top of the fridge, hidden behind a bag of chips-like that could stop him.

“Got it.” He whispers, turning to see Glorieux’s ecstatic grin.

“Let’s go, before he comes back.” 

“And where are you two sneaking off to?” Claquesous asks, stepping into the kitchen. Silent as always, Gueul thinks, pleased he didn’t jump at the sudden sound.

“None of your business, Sous, fuck off.” 

“I better not get a call to pick your drunk asses up.” He warns, more than a hint of amusement in his voice. 

“You’re the last person we’d call.” Gueulemer snorts.

“Good.” He disappears back into the shadows, and Gueulemer shrugs.

“Whatever. Come on.”

 

“The world is shit, you know.” Gueulemer giggles. He’s tipsy already, and transfixed by everything around him-the stars shining through the trees, the butterfly that goes past, the gleam of the bottle in Glorieux’s hand.

“It is.” Glorieux agrees, sticking his leg out to overlap his ankle with Gueulemer’s. Gueulemer only smiles, still staring up at the stars. The ground in these woods  really isn’t the most comfortable place to lay down, but he’s too happy and buzzed to care.

“I mean it.” He insists. “‘S like, the world is-it’s really shit. Really shit. Kids starving an’ shit. People living on the streets.”

“Nothing we can do about it, Mer.” Glorieux tells him, sounding half asleep.

“I know, ugh. Just sucks is all. Whole stupid world sucks.”

“Hey.” Glorieux reaches out to grab Gueulemer’s wrist, and Gueul sees him turn to face him. He does the same, so the two are looking eye to eye. He can feel Glorieux’s warm breath, ghosting over his cheek.

“The world is shit.” Glorieux agrees. “It’s-it’s real shit. Lot of bad stuff. But there’s good stuff too, Mer.”

“Like what, whaddaya mean?”

“Like.” Glorieux reaches out, to poke Gueulemer in the forehead. “You. You’re good stuff.”

“You too, Glor. You’re-you’re a good stuff.” Glorieux smiles, and Gueulemer has to wonder how he’s never noticed how nice his lips are-soft and pink, a tiny scar just above his top lip. He’s smiling at Gueulemer, his eyes shining and their noses almost touching. Suddenly, Gueulemer wants to lean forward, wants to bring their mouths together and kiss Glorieux breathless, until the taste of him is on Gueulemer’s tongue, until his lips are bitten red and his hair is mussed, until he stops looking at Gueulemer with that stupid, wonderful, soft smile, until they’re drunk not only on wine but on each other. 

He wants to so badly it nearly hurts him to turn onto his back. He doesn’t see Glorieux’s face fall, as he turns away as well.  _ What the fuck, Gueul, _ he thinks to himself.  _ Stop being weird, Glor is your best friend. _

“World isn’t so shit.” Glorieux says after a moment. “You and ice cream. S’all I need.”

Gueulemer smiles to himself, his mouth and his mind full of words he can never say. He reaches out to overlap his ankle with Glorieux’s instead, the familiar warmth comforting him.

It’s enough.

  
  


“Wonder where Biz has run off to.” Brujon muses, flipping through the tv channels idly.   
“Not a clue.” Claquesous hums. “Haven’t seen her in a couple days.” As if on cue, the door opens, and Bizarro strides in looking tired, pleased, and rather worse for wear.

“Hey, guys.” She says, like it’s completely ordinary. “Did you know that six shots of vodka is apparently enough to knock me the fuck out?” Claquesous looks up, confused, but Brujon nods.

“Yeah, remember that one party I had to drag you home?”

“No, I don’t, but that’s probably why.” With a laugh, she falls down on the couch next to him.“Christ, but I had fun. I think. I’m not really sure to be honest.” 

“What the hell happened to you in just two years?” Claquesous asks.

“What can I tell you? Graduating was a bitch. I’m pretty sure that’s when everything started to go downhill.”

“Of course it was.” Claquesous mutters, rolling his eyes.

  
  


To Gueulemer’s surprise, when he comes downstairs at three am, Babet is sitting at the kitchen table. He has a mug of hot chocolate in his hand, and bags under his eyes.

“Hey.” Gueulemer says, tiredly. “Mind the company?”

“Nah. Water’s still hot if you want some.” Gueulemer nods, and pulls out a mug of his own, busying himself with making the hot chocolate. 

“Any marshmallows?”

“A whole bag, in the cupboard.”

“Thanks.” They’re both silent for a few minutes, as Gueulemer sits down with his hot chocolate.

“Babet?” He asks.

“Yeah?”

“...Nevermind.”

“What is it, Gueul?”

“It’s stupid.”

“Does it have anything to do with why you’re awake at three in the morning?”

“Guess so.” He looks away, not meeting Babet’s eyes. “Just couldn’t sleep.” Babet hums noncommittally, sipping his hot chocolate. He has a few guesses about the cause of Gueulemer’s insomnia, and none of them are particularly good. He glances at Gueulemer out of the corner of his eye. The boy looks miserable, his stare vacant and his hand tapping a rhythm on the counter the way it does when he’s upset or unfocused.

“I’ll tell you why I’m up if you tell me why you’re up.” Gueulemer doesn’t answer him, but he inclines his head in a curious way. Babet takes this as a sign to start talking. “You know how I had kids? And a wife?”

“Course.” Gueulemer says, quietly. Everyone in Patron Minette knows that. And everyone in Patron Minette knows not to talk about it.

“The littlest...today’s her birthday. She’s eight, now.”

“Oh.” 

“I haven’t seen her since she was an infant, in my arms. And now she’s grown up. I’ve missed everything. Her first lost tooth, her first skinned knee, her first steps.”

“I...” Gueulemer doesn’t know what to say to this.

“And her older sister, she’s fifteen now. Probably going on dates, getting her heart broken, aceing her classes in school. I’m missing that too. And I’ll miss her graduation. Her wedding. Her children.” He shakes his head, and then takes a long sip of his hot chocolate. Softly, Gueulemer puts a hand on his arm. He doesn’t know if it helps, doesn’t know if Babet even notices. But it’s the best he can do. Babet sets the hot chocolate down with a sigh, and gives Gueulemer a small smile. It’s not much, but it sets him a little at ease to see it.

“What about you, kid? What’s keeping you up?” 

“Nothing.” Gueulemer replies, shrugging. Babet half chuckles, rolling his eyes.

“Sure.” 

“It’s stupid.” He sighs. “You don’t wanna hear it.”

“Try me. I’ve heard, and done, a lot of stupid shit.”

“Not as stupid as this.” Gueulemer sighs, putting his head down on the table. “It’s just. Shit. Confusing shit.” Babet snorts.

“The _ world _ is confusing shit.”

“Isn’t that the truth.” Gueulemer rolls his eyes. “You got anything stronger than hot chocolate?”

“Not for sixteen year olds, I don’t.”

“I’m almost seventeen.”

“Not for ten months, dumbass.”

“Close enough.” 

“Go to sleep.” Babet sighs, standing up. “And Gueul?”

“Yeah?”

“That thing that’s confusing you? Maybe you should talk to him about it.”

“What-what do you mean?”

“I’m pretty sure you know what I mean.”

“And I’m pretty sure you can go fuck yourself.” Gueul says, standing up to clap him on the shoulder. “Night Babet.”

“Night Gueul.”

  
  


“Thenardier’s getting sloppy.” Claquesous murmurs. “They’re onto him, some sort of drug deal gone wrong. Three people ended up dead and he’s the number one suspect.”

“Where are you reading that?”

“The news. Plus it’s all over tumblr. The guy who died is a trending hashtag.”

“Ah. Yes. That all makes complete sense.” Babet says, straight faced.

“All over the news too.” Gueulemer says, turning around to face them from his spot on the couch. 

“None of that is good.” Babet frowns. “We’ve had contact with his gang, dealings. If he goes down, I guarantee he’s dragging us down with him.”

“So...what do we do?”

“We cut off the head of the snake so it can’t bite us.” Claquesous says, his hands curling into fists.

“Exactly. We take him down from the inside.”

“I might know a person.” Bizarro says, thoughtfully. “Met them on the street. We were roomates for a while-by which I mean they let me crash in their apartment when I got cold.”

“And how are they going to help us?”

“Intel. They have a brother in Thenardier’s inner circle. Poussagrive.”

“And you’re confident they’ll help?”

“I know them.” Bizarro says confidently. “They won’t betray us.”

“Then, you and Gueul can go get them.”

“Aight.” She stands up.”Hey, kid. Can you drive yet? Or are you still learning to read the instructions manual.”

“I can drive.” Gueulemer says, offended.

“No you can’t.” Glorieux and Claquesous say in the same breath.

“Oh, come on. You hit  _ one _ trash can and you’re branded for life.”

  
  


It’s probably a bad thing to find bruises comforting, Sous absently thinks to himself. They always have been, though, to him. When he lived with his mom, they were proof that  _ yes, this happened, she can’t convince me it didn’t it if it bruises.  _ (Not that that ever stopped her.) Now, the bruises on his knuckles are proof that he fought, that he got them back just as good as they got him. 

“You okay, Sous?” Montparnasse asks softly.

“I’m good.” Sous replies. And strangely enough, he means it. “How about you?”

“Yeah. I’m good.”

“So what do you think this person is going to be like?”

“Well, Biz knows them, so they can’t be all bad.” 

“Biz...has questionable judgement.”

“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.” Montparnasse warns. “This could be the lead we need.”

“Or it could be our downfall.” Claquesous sighs. “What was it that brought Icarus to death, flying too high? Reaching too far? Putting himself at risk for a slim chance at something?”

“Someone’s in a poetic mood today.” Montparnasse murmurs. “And you’re forgetting that he would have died if he had flown too low, as well.”

“An impasse, then.” Claquesous sighs, standing up. “I’m warning you now. I think this, no matter what way it goes, could mean only bad things for Patron Minette.”

_ He’s probably right,  _ Montparnasse thinks, watching as he leaves the room. But he’ll be damned if he tells Claquesous that.

 

Fauntleroy has flowers everywhere. It’s the first thing Gueul notices, the instant they open the door.

“Hey Faun.” Bizarro grins.

“Biz!” They dart forward to throw their arms around her, squeezing tightly. “How are you?” Their gaze darts to Gueul, and he sees something in their gaze sharpen. “And who have you brought with you?” They draw back from Bizarro, eyeing him warily. Their hand rests at their side in a way that makes it all but obvious-they’ve got a weapon, likely a knife. Something in their eyes tells him they would use it. 

“He’s a friend, Faun.” Bizarro says, laying a hand on their arm. “And he’s only a child.” He doesn’t move as their eyes scan him, their face filling with surprise.

“You can’t be any more than sixteen.” They breathe.

“I am  _ not _ a child, Biz.” He hisses, shooting her a glare. 

“Come inside.” Fauntleroy says, opening the door wider. “I think we likely have a lot to discuss, yes?”

“Quick as ever.” Bizarro smiles. “You’re right, we do.”

  
  


“Fauntleroy.” Claquesous hums. “Strange name.”

“Strange name for a strange person.” Gueulemer agrees. “You should’ve seen their apartment when I picked them up. Covered in flowers.”

“Something wrong with flowers?” Montparnasse asks, appearing behind them in the way he sometimes does.

“Fuck off, Parnasse, nobody said anything about Jehan. Go find someone else to bother.” Gueul says, elbowing him away. Montparnasse hums noncomitally, but disappears in the general location of the living room. This is the problem with shared living arrangements, Claquesous thinks with distaste. Never a break.

“Where are they now?” He asks.

“Back bedroom. Babet says they’ll be useful.”

“Fine.” Claquesous mutters. “This information they have better be worth it.”

“With a brother in Thenardier’s inner circle? I’m sure it will be.”

“Well, if Babet says they’re useful, I believe him. But I don’t have to like this. It’s too dangerous.”

“We haven’t told them our names-well, beside Bizarro, but they already knew each other. Plus, we blindfolded them on the way here, took the back roads, and they’ve only seen a few rooms. And, if they do somehow manage to squeal about us to Thenardier...” Gueul smiles wolfishly. “They won’t be talking much longer.” Claquesous almost smiles. Without further preamble, he closes the kitchen door behind him and walks the few steps to the back bedroom.

He’s not sure anything could have prepared him for this. They’re maybe his age, possibly a bit younger, with dark skin and hair in the most vivid shade of purple he’s ever seen. There’s a tattoo peeking out from under the edge of their tank top (which happens to be neon yellow,  _ jesus christ. _ )

“Nice mask.” They cross their arms. “I don’t even get to see your face?”

“No.” 

“Well, how am I supposed to trust you, then?”

“How am I supposed to trust you?” He counters. They give him the barest hint of a smile, and move from where they had been sitting cross legged to stand up. They’re shorter than him, by at least half a foot, but their wild hair almost makes up for the difference.

“Well then, Monsieur Claquesous, it seems we find ourselves at an impasse.” They say, quietly.

“How do you know that name.” He asks, refusing to let his voice betray his shock.

“Oh, I know about you. Everyone does...especially when you’ve had as many dealings with criminals as I have. You’re the man in the mask. Here one minute, blended into the shadows the next. Some people don’t even think you’re human. You’re a man who lives in the darkness...I can appreciate that.”

“Gueulemer was right.” He says. “You are a very strange person.” 

“Well, thanks for noticing.” And then they curtsy, as if it’s an everyday thing, and he realizes they’re wearing honest to god rainbow converse.

“I believe we were promised intel?” He asks.

“I want protection first.” They reply. “I want your word that I won’t be harmed if I give you this information-by Thenardiers men or by yours.”

“They aren’t mine.” Claquesous replies. “Nevertheless, you have my word.” 

“And how do I know I can trust it?”

Silently, as if daring them to say something, he reaches behind his head and unties his mask.

“Speak.” He says. They nod, half smiling, and Claquesous can only think one thing.

They’re  _ wasted _ on intel.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know this is late and I'm sorry
> 
> TW for mentions of transphobia and some past child abuse, some alcohol, and some blood and implied violence

“Get a haircut.” Montparnasse snipes at Brujon, who flips him off.

“Ditch the eyeliner and I’ll think about it.”

“You wish you looked this good in eyeliner, Brujon. I’ll be _buried_ with this eyeliner on, mark my words.”

“Yeah, because one of us is gonna end up offing you.”

“I hope it’s Sous. He’ll at least make it dramatic.”

“You’re both such drama queens.” Brujon mutters, flicking his hair.

“You aren’t in a shampoo commercial, for fucks sake. I ought to cut that mane off of you.”

“You leave my hair alone, Montparnasse, unless you want that pretty face of yours all scarred up.”

“Oh, I’d like to see you try.”

“Then try me, bitch.”

“Break it up, for fucks sake.” Babet interjects, rolling his eyes. “I can’t hear the damn tv. Don’t you two have homework or something?”

“Montparnasse has an english essay due.” Brujon snitches, causing Montparnasse to hit him on the back of the head.

“Brujon hasn’t done his math homework.”

“Then go do that, both of you, or I’ll find a way to make you.”

“Asshole.” Montparnasse mutters at Brujon.

“Douchebag.” He hisses back.  
“ _Go._ ”

  


“Get anything useful from the tiny, purple haired weirdo?” Montparnasse asks. Sous is silent for a long moment.

“Their name is Fauntleroy.”

“Like I fucking care.” Montparnasse snorts. The moonlight streaming through his window illuminates Claquesous’s face, unreadable and stony. Sous is fully clothed, and Montparnasse almost regrets that, because Claquesous’s shoulders glowing in the moonlight would be a sight to see.

“You’d do well to remember their name.” Claquesous says, moving until he’s sitting on the very edge of Montparnasse’s bed, his face turned away. “It seems like they’re going to be a bit of a permanent fixture.”

“Jesus.” Montparnasse mutters. “Bet you’d like that.” Claquesous turns, his eyes sharp and flashing with something like anger-well hidden, but Montparnasse knows how to spot it.

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Their name is Fauntleroy.” Montparnasse mimics, his voice high and breathy in a way Claquesous’s is definitely not, thank you very much.

“You should learn to shut your mouth.” Claquesous tells him, spitting the words like they’re poison. “It could land you in trouble.”

“Oh, but Sous-“ Montparnasse says, crawling across the bed until he’s sat next to him, his breath ghosting over Claquesous’s neck. “I thought you liked my mouth.” He murmurs.

“I prefer it when you’re not speaking.” Claquesous says, a sneer forming on his lips. Montparnasse presses a kiss to the base of his neck, parting his lips so his teeth dig in, and Claquesous feels a shiver run up his spine.

“Come on, don’t be all pissy.” He breathes, his lips never leaving Claquesous’s neck. “That’s no fun.”

“You are the absolute worst.” Claquesous mutters, turning to capture the lips against his neck with his own.

“I know.” Montparnasse purrs, half smiling as Claquesous moves to his collarbone.

And then Claquesous digs his teeth in, and Montparnasse forgets how to speak.

  


Bizarro flops down on the couch dramatically, and puts her legs in Gueulemer’s lap, sighing.

“Something wrong, Bizarro?” He asks, rolling his eyes. “Move your damn legs.”

“I am _vexed,_ honey, vexed.”

“Don’t call me honey. You’re such a drama queen.” He moves a little so her heel isn’t digging into his thigh, resigning himself to the fact that she’s not moving anytime soon.

“I got a call from my mother this morning.” She says, eventually. The light of the TV bathes them both in blue, casting long shadows down her face. Neither of them speaks. “She wants to know if I’m ready to stop ‘all this bullshit’ and come back and be her _son._ ” Her voice drops with distaste and venom, and Gueulemer winces. Not at the tone, he’s heard worse (and Bizarro doesn’t even slightly scare him) but at the words. Because fuck, he gets that.

“Fucking bitch.” He mutters. She nods in agreement, silently. “Once,” He starts, “I had a foster mom who beat me because I cut my hair. I was 9. First time I ran away from a foster home.”

“Fucking bitch.” She echoes.

“People suck.” Gueulemer sighs. “I need a drink. Or a smoke. Or a fight.”

“Yes to all three.” Bizarro agrees, closing her eyes. Neither moves.

  
  


Gueulemer puts a mixing bowl in the sink, humming as he does so. It’s quiet, right now. Peaceful. The chicken risotto smells delicious, too, if he says so himself. He pulls out a cutting board, setting his carrots down, and turns away to get his knife. There’s the faintest sound behind him, and when he turns one of his carrots is gone.

“Sous!” He yells. “I know that was you!” Here’s no sound, but he knows Claquesous hears, and is probably laughing to himself.

 

Next in the kitchen is Montparnasse, his hands bloodstained and his hair falling into his face.

“Nope.” Gueulemer points towards the bathroom. “Like hell you’re getting your nasty blood all through my sink, I just cleaned it. Take a damn shower.”

“It’s not technically _my_ blood.” Montparnasse protests. “I just wanted to wash it off before I left again, come on.”

“Then get it off in the fucking bathroom.”

Muttering curses under his breath, Montparnasse leaves, to Gueulemer’s relief-only for Brujon to walk into the kitchen.

“Sup, kid.” Brujon says. “Oooh, you’re cooking with wine? Fancy.” He grabs the wine and takes a long swg, only to nearly choke, screwing his face up in disgust. “Oh, that’s fucking _nasty._ ”

“That’s because it’s cooking wine, bitch.” Gueulemer throws a dish towel at him. “Get out or a knife is next.”

 

Bizarro perches her ass on the counter like she hasn’t a care, grinning down at Gueulemer.

“So, whats for dinner?”

“Chicken and vegetable risotto.” He sighs. “Get  off the counter.”

“Hmmm, sounds nasty.” He hits her on the thigh with his spatula, scowling.

“First of all, it’s going to be amazing. Second, get off the damn counter.”

“You’re no fun.” She mutters, hopping off the counter with ease. “How long till it’s done?”

“Mmmmm, give me like twenty minutes.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

  


“What are you cooking?” Glorieux asks, reaching a finger towards the pan as if to taste it. Gueulemer smacks his hand with the spatula, scowling.

“The next person to touch my goddamned food gets their fingers broken.”

“Oooookay.” Glorieux retracts the hand, trying to look casual. “What is it, though?”

“Chicken and vegetable risotto. Easy to make, almost impossible to get wrong, and it always tastes good.”

“Pretty good reasoning.” Glorieux nods. “Who taught you how to cook it?”

“Taught myself, with a cookbook from the library. It was in my....third foster home, I think? If I didn’t cook, I didn’t eat.” Glorieux’s fingers curl into a fist, the line of his jaw going hard.

“Fucking ridiculous.”

Gueulemer shrugs.

“Grab some plates, will you? Food’s ready.”

  


Fauntleroy wakes up in the night, drenched in a cold sweat and their own tears. They can’t stop shaking, they can’t stop seeing the blood, they can’t stop hearing the voices.

Heart pounding in their chest, they slip out of their bedroom. The house is dark, quiet, everyone is asleep. If they can just-

“What are you doing?” Claquesous’s voice is quiet, subdued, but it makes them jump anyways. They turns toward the couch.

“What are you doing?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” In the darkness, his voice may as well be disembodied, because they can’t see a trace of him. Blindly, they step towards the voice, feeling for the couch underneath their fingers. They find the couch, and then Claquesous’s hand.

“Hello.” They say softly.

“Hello.” They’re both silent for a long moment.

“Hard day?” He asks.

“No. Just a bad dream. You?”

“I couldn’t get to sleep to have a bad dream in the first place.”

“Yeah. I get that.” They shake their head. “What are you doing down here?”

“What are _you_ doing _here?_ ” He asks, instead. “I don’t buy for a moment that you chose to come here out of the goodness of your heart, or because you want to help. I think you had your own reasons.” They’re silent for a long moment.

“I guess I’m running.” They say, eventually. “From my brother, from the life he lead, from the things I saw.”

“You ran from one group of criminals to another?” Claquesous asks dryly.

“I suppose, yes. But I trust you.”  
“You shouldn’t.”

“Funnily enough, that’s not going to stop me.” They imagine him staring at them, imagine his eyes piercing them, blue as a wave about to break. And then they curse themselves for imagining that, because they swear they can see his eyes in the darkness.

Only, it’s not an illusion. In the faint moonlight from the window, they can just make him out. His expression is unguarded, his mouth downturned, and they realize-he’s worried.

“I can’t tell. Are you worried for me, or worried for your friends?” They ask him, curiously.

“I’m worried,” He replies, “That this is not going to end well for anyone involved.”

“Oh, you’re likely right.” Fauntleroy sighs, standing up. “Fortunately, though, it’s been a while since I was under the illusion that I get some sort of happy ending.” They swear they see his mouth twitch into a smile. “Try and get some sleep, Sous, yeah?”

“Goodnight, Fauntleroy.”

“Goodnight.”

  


“Pirates of the caribbean sucks, Mer.” Glorieux laughs. The two are laying upside down on the couch, and Glorieux isn’t sure how or when they got there. Probably around his third drink, he thinks. Gueulemer only grins, rolling his eyes. Glorieux is suddenly glad that they’re upside down-the fringe is out of Gueulemer’s face, and his eyes are smiling just as hard as him mouth.

“I know that now.” He replies. “But I didn’t when I was five and had a crush on jack sparrow!”

“I can’t believe you.” Glorieux rolls his eyes. He’s tipsy and dizzy, but it doesn’t stop him from reaching out to kick Gueulemer’s ankle, hoping to make him lose his balance.

“Look. He had long hair and muscles, and I have a type.” Gueulemer laughs, kicking him back.

“Okay, but did you really like him, or did you want to be him?”

“It’s hard to tell.” Gueulemer admits. “But he was one of the biggest reasons I wanted to be a pirate.”

“Wait, what?” Glorieux flips himself right side up. “Woah, hah, bad idea. Uhm. You wanted to be a pirate?!?”

“Until I was like, ten.” Gueulemer replies, twisting his head to grin up at Glorieux. “I had a shirt with a skull and crossbones on it and it was like, my favorite thing ever.”

“You. Wanted to be. A pirate.” Glorieux repeats, a foolish smile spreading across his face.

“Look, I didn’t come here to be insulted.” Gueulemer says, pulling himself to a sitting position. They’re facing each other now, their hair messy and both of them wearing huge grins.

“Did you wear the-the headband thing?” Glorieux asks.

“Stole a scarf from one of my foster moms.” Gueulemer admits. “It was red. She got so pissed.” For some reason it strikes him as funny, because he starts laughing, leaning forward to rest his head on Glorieux’s shoulder. “Fuck, Glor.” He manages between laughs. “I wanted to be a fucking pirate.”

“A pirate!” Glor says, giving in to his own laughter. Gueulemer’s breath is warm on his neck, and he’s tipsy and happy. And looking down at the laughing boy half sitting in his lap, with his messy hair and his sparkling eyes, Glorieux can only think one thing.

_Holy fuck, I’m in love with him._

  


Montparnasse slams his locker door closed, and turns away only to nearly run into Jehan.

“Fucking hell.” He swears. “Someone should put a bell on you. Christ.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” They say, innocently. “Having a rough day?”

“No. Fuck off.”

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.” He finds the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile, as they beam up at him. “You know,” They say. “I don’t really feel like going to math class.”

“Do you ever?”

“Not particularly.” They roll their eyes. “What I really want is to go somewhere. I want to _do_ something.”

“Then let’s go do something.” He says, pulling his bag more securely on his shoulder.

“Like what?”

“Well, what do you want to do?”

 

Jehan takes a sip of their milkshake, grinning.

“Ice cream is scientifically proven to make any bad day better, you know.” They tell him. “I can already feel my day getting better.”

“Good.” He smiles, and takes a bite of his own chocolate ice cream. “Damn. You weren’t kidding when you said this is the best ice cream in town.”

“Of course I wasn’t! I never kid about ice cream.” They push themself up onto the hood of his car, feet dangling. Their hair is loose, and it tangles in the wind as they look away.

He sits down next to them, silently, staring at the way the sun illuminates their eyes. They’re beautiful. He wants to press a thousand kisses to their freckled neck, wants to bite their lips until they’re kissed red, wants to run his fingers through their hair.

“Jehan.” He says. They turn to him, smiling softly, and he can’t help but smile back.

“Yeah?” They ask.

“Would you say this counts as a date?”

“Hm, that depends on two things.” They tell him, leaning forward.

“And what would those be?”

“Whether you want it to be.” They’re inches from him, their eyes huge and dark in the afternoon sunlight. “And whether you kiss me.”

“Well that one’s all too easy.” He says, and leans forward to kiss the smirk off their mouth.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for lots of mentions of child abuse/neglect (It's not too too bad I don't think but be careful? We're dealing with the thenardiers now) and mentions of alcohol and drugs, some smoking, and mentions of violence

There is no knock at the door, no text, no tapping at the window-

No, Eponine’s arrival is heralded by the creaking of the front door as it opens.

Babet is the first downstairs, brandishing a knife in his hand. He’s followed closely by Claquesous, then Gueulemer and Glorieux, and then Montparnasse. (Brujon and Bizarro could sleep through anything.)

It’s Eponine. She’s standing in the living room, with a sleeping seven year old wrapped around her, and a solemn twelve year old holding her hand. 

“Ponine?” Montparnasse asks, shoving his way forward.

“What happened?” Babet asks. “Why did you bring Gav and Zelma here?” 

She looks up at them, her face tearstained and a bruise already forming around her eye.

“We had to get out.” She manages. “We had to, we couldn’t-My dad, he-I had to-” Gueulemer is the one who steps forward to take Gavroche out of Eponine’s arms, despite having only met the boy once, when he was still a toddler. He lays him gently on the couch, as Azelma stares after him. She tugs on Eponine’s shirt, her eyes asking some question that only Eponine seems to understand. She nods, gently, and turns to Babet.

“I-I hate to ask.” She starts. “Do you have any food?”

 

* * *

 

“What happened?” Montparnasse asks Eponine, quietly. They’re both watching Azelma wolf down her food like someone who hasn’t eaten in days.

Looking at the hollowness of Eponine’s cheekbones, he wants to ask when she herself last ate, but he knows she won’t answer.

“It got bad.” She answers, quietly. “Dad...he tried to get Azelma to go out on a drug run for him.” Montparnasse sucks in a breath. “I told him there was no way in hell. He can make me do whatever the fuck he wants, but Zel is  _ twelve. _ ”

“Fucking bastard.” Montparnasse hisses. “That’s what happened to your eye, then?” She nods.

“He got blackout drunk, and when he passed out I took Gav and Zel and ran.”

“You can stay for as long as you like.” Babet tells her. She looks up at him, her eyes exhausted and emptier than Montparnasse has ever seen them.

“Thank you. I’ll sleep on the couch, with Gav and Zel, I won’t be any trouble-”

“Bullshit. You can sleep with me. My bed is huge, and it’s not like we’ve never shared before.” Montparnasse throws an arm over her shoulders protectively, the gesture as casual as he can make it.

“You sure?” She asks, quietly.

“Course. I’m not gonna make you sleep with two squirmy kids.”

“You’re bonier than either of them, and you’ll elbow me all night.” He elbows her in the side, making a mock offended noise, and he’s secretly pleased to see the uneven grin spreading across her face. “Eat something, and then you’re gonna sleep. And you’d better not get up before ten or I’m gonna have to actually murder you.”

* * *

 

It’s late-or early-when Montparnasse steps outside. The sky is still dark, the air crisp and cold, and he spots the cherry of Gueulemer’s cigarette before he spots the boy himself.

“Hey.” He says.

“Hey.” Gueulemer replies. “Is ‘ponine asleep?” 

“Yeah.” She’s passed out on Montparnasse’s bed, long arms and legs too thin in the clothes she’d borrowed from him.

“Good.” Gueulemer takes a long drag of his cigarette, and Montparnasse pulls out one of his own-and then realises he’s forgotten his lighter. He holds out his hand, and Gueulemer passes his over for Montparnasse to light up.

“Poor kids.” Gueulemer mutters. “Too young for this shit.”

“Gueul, ‘ponine is older than you.”

“Doesn’t mean she isn’t too young for that shit. And Gav, Zel-they’re just kids.”

“Yeah. It sucks.” Montparnasse grimaces. “Shit’s bad.” They stand in silence for a moment, smoke rising lazily. The door to the house opens, the barest sliver of light escaping, and then closes again. Claquesous’s footsteps are almost silent, but in the dew soaked grass his bare feet are a bit louder than usual.

“Give me one.” Claquesous says, his voice rough with sleeplessness and something like anger. Gueulemer hands over a cigarette, and Montparnasse passes Gueulemer’s lighter.   
“Since when do you smoke?” Gueulemer asks, but he doesn’t have enough energy to be properly surprised.

“I don’t.” Nevertheless, he smokes like a natural, smoke curling around him like an old friend as he exhales. “Ponine okay?”

“Define okay.” Montparnasse replies. “She’s sober. She’s here. She’s basically unhurt.”

“I guess that’s the best we could ask for right now.” Sous mutters. 

“Probably.”

“We should kill that bastard.” Gueulemer says, his voice a bit too loud in his anger. 

“Put a bullet through his skull.” Montparnasse agrees.

“No, that’s too quick.” Claquesous sneers. “Make him hurt a bit first.” They’re all silent for a long moment.

“This is such shit.” Gueulemer says, again.

“The shittiest.” Claquesous says, and stubs his cigarette out on the porch railing. “Let’s go.”

Wordlessly, the other two follow him inside, and the night darkens again.

 

* * *

 

“Morning.” Eponine mumbles over her cup of coffee, sitting down at the kitchen table. She’s wearing a too large sweatshirt, and there’s a burn hole in the sleeve that suggests it belonged to Gueulemer at one point.

“Morning.” Gueul says, flipping his pancakes.

“Hi ‘nine!” Gav says, cheerfully. “Mer is making  _ pancakes! _ ”

“Don’t forget about the chocolate chips.” Gueulemer reminds him.

“ _ Chocolate pancakes!!! _ ”

“Jesus, more sugar. That’s exactly what you need.” She ruffles the boys hair affectionately. “You sleep okay, kiddo?”

“Mhm! Zel kicked me though but it’s okay cause I know she didn’t mean to.”

“Yeah, she’s a sleep kicker.” Eponine agrees. “But she had to deal with your snoring.”

“I do snore!” Gav says, grinning. “I snore so loud!”

“You sure do.” She rolls her eyes. “Zelma still asleep?”

“Uh huh, she stole all the blankets, and I got cold, but I didn’t know where you were and Mer was awake and he has  _ pancakes! _ ”

“You really like pancakes, kid.” Gueulemer laughs. “They’re not difficult.”

“I used to have pancakes! Before daddy came home and mommy went all bad.” Gueulemer’s hand pauses a moment over the pancakes he’s flipping, and then resumes. 

“How about you go check on Zelma, Gav.” Eponine says, fingers clenched tightly around her coffee. “Wake her up so she can have some pancakes too.”

“Okay!” Gav agrees, hopping off his chair. He disappears into the living room, and the kitchen fills with silence.

“It’s not-” Eponine starts. “It’s not as bad as he makes it out. I kept him safe from the worst of it. Really.”   
“I believe you.” Gueulemer says. He turns to face her, his eyes soft. “How many pancakes do you want?”

 

* * *

 

Claquesous gets along well with Azelma, he always has. She’s quieter than her brother, more solemn. 

“You okay?” He asks her, attempting to sound reasonably calm.

“I’m fine.” She says, pulling her blanket tighter around her shoulders. 

“Okay.” He doesn’t push it, only passing her the tv remote. “What do you want to watch?” She takes it from him silently and starts flipping through the channels. Eventually, she settles on some bland, unoriginal show with a laugh track and too bright clothes. She seems to like it though, and he makes sure to smile at all the appropriate parts when she looks over at him. 

“Sous?” She asks him, during a commercial for some blender.

“Yeah?” He replies, keeping his face carefully neutral.

“Ponine...is she hurt because of me? I know-I know that sometimes, she would stand in front of me or-or she would tell me to go to my room or go to Parnasse, when dad was really mad but-”

“Hey.” He says, moving so he’s standing in front of her. He doesn’t touch her, not sure how she’ll react or what memories that will trigger,but he waits until she looks at him. “It wasn’t your fault. None of it was. Your dad is a shitty person, and Eponine may have taken the brunt of it, but the only person who’s at fault is  _ him. _ ” 

“Okay.” She whispers, looking away, and he faintly realizes that maybe he got a little too angry. He kneels down in front of her, meeting her eyes again.

“I’m not angry with you. I’m angry with your father.”

“But-”

“No. You’re a good kid, Zelma. You deserve good things, no matter what  _ he _ says.”

“Okay.” She says again. “Sous?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I hug you?”

“I-sure.” She puts her arms around his neck, her face half in his shoulder and half in his neck. It’s awkward, with him kneeling in front of the couch, and her still sitting, but he puts his arms around her anyway. She makes a sound something like a whimper, her shoulders shaking, and he tightens his hold a little bit. Let her cry, he thinks. And then- _ she’s so young. _ She’s young and impressionable...and a hell of a lot like he was at her age. 

And that’s not exactly a comforting thought.

 

* * *

 

 

Montparnasse closes his locker door, his gaze on Eponine. She’s down the hall, with Cosette and Grantaire, and the three are huddled in what looks like an intense conversation. Eponine must say something about what’s happened, because Cosette pulls her into a hug. It looks to be a pretty tight one, too-Cosette is fierce for such a little thing. Grantaire looks away awkwardly, as the two cling to each other, and his gaze meets Montparnasse’s. As if by some unspoken agreement, the two start walking, and Montparnasse catches up to Grantaire easily. 

“Ponine okay?” Montparnasse asks under his breath.

“You’d know better than I would.” Grantaire replies, glancing back at her. “Staying with you, isn’t she? She seems pretty good right now, though.” Montparnasse snorts.

“Guess so. I’ve been telling her to do something about that for months.”

“That makes two of us, then.” Grantaie mutters. “Bunch of dumbasses.”

“You’re not exactly one to talk.” Montparnasse says, elbowing him. “You and your useless pining over  _ Ange. _ ”

“Fuck off.” Grantaire spits. “You’re not any better, with your pining over Jehan.”

“Hm. Considering that we went out,  _ and _ I kissed them, I’d say I’m doing a fair bit better than you.”

“Shut  _ up. _ ” Grantaire says, eyes wide. “Seriously?” Montparnasse nods, half smug and half wanting to keep every detail to himself, wrapped up closely in his heart. 

“Yes, so I’m the only one allowed to be on a high horse here.”

“Fuck you.” Grantaire rolls his eyes. “The difference is that Jehan actually likes you.”

“I’m not going to sit here and explain yet again that Enjolras does actually feel human emotions, somewhere deep inside. The dude likes you, Grantaire. So either do something about it or shut the fuck up.”

“You’re an ass, Montparnasse.”

“But I’m right and we both know it.”

Grantaire flips him off, and steps into his classroom.

“Montparnasse.” He says, poking his head out. “I really am happy for you.”

“Thanks.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Who’re you?” Gavroche asks.

“I’m Fauntleroy.” They cross their arms, their bright pink top moving with them. “Who are you?”

“I’m Gavroche. I’m seven.”

“I’m nineteen. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too.” He grins. “Do you know how to cook? Mer is at school, but ponine said I don’t have to go today cause I’m traumatized! But I’m hungry and Babet isn’t back yet.”

“Hmm. Let’s see what we can find.” Fauntleroy grins despite themself. Gavroche is a funny kid. “So. You’re Eponine’s younger brother, yeah?” They ask, walking into the kitchen.

“Yup!” He jumps up to sit on the counter, swinging his legs. “She took me and Zel here in the middle of the night. But Mer and Parnasse and Sous and Babet are here, and they’re a lot nicer than home! And I don’t ever have to not eat here because there’s always food and there’s even juice!” Fauntleroy swallows hard, and makes a note to go buy a lot of candy later.

“Of course you don’t have to not eat. How does grilled cheese sound for lunch?”

“Yes!” Gavroche grins, his smile wide and showcasing his missing front tooth.

“Great. Just grab me the cheese.”

* * *

 

 

“And we’re sure he has ties to Thenardier?” Claquesous asks, frowning. Babet stabs the computer screen with a finger. 

“Several drug deals, a couple wire transfers that we traced to an account that we’re pretty sure belongs to Thenardier.” 

“And you think he’ll give us the information?” Gueulemer crosses his arm. “Anybody with a shred of loyalty wouldn’t rat them out.”

“Well, you guys aren’t going to ask very nicely.” Babet grins. 

“How are we even going to get this guy?”

“We set up a deal with him tonight. Officially, Claquesous is meeting him, alone.”

“And unofficially?”

“You, Claquesous, and Montparnasse are going. If it goes according to plan, well...we’ll have him, shall we say ‘detained’, tonight.”

“Some sort of safe house?”

“The one on Brown Street.”

“Sounds good.” Claquesous says. His mask only covers half his face today, and he’s grinning viciously. 

“I’m just glad it’s not more fucking recon.” Montparnasse rolls his eyes. 

“Quit your bitching.” Babet tells him, glancing at the clock. “You’ve got two hours to go.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for violence and blood, some alcohol, and a brief allusion to sex trafficking/prostitution  
> This one is a shorter one, but it's a bit heavier. Things are starting to pick up now~

“Whatever you’re doing tonight, good luck.” Eponine says. He nods, hiding his knife in his boot with a practiced ease. 

“I’m better off than you. You guys have that protest tomorrow, yeah?”

“Shit.” Eponine sighs. “Yeah. I hope I don’t get arrested this time. Fucking  _ cops. _ ”

“Fucking cops.” He agrees, grimacing. “Good luck. Don’t get killed.”

“I honestly can’t promise that.” Eponine mutters. “Don’t you get killed either.”

“Pinky promise.” He’s half joking, but Eponine sticks her pinky out anyway, like they’re ten year olds again. He sticks his pinky out too, wrapping it around hers.

“Tomorrow night.” Eponine says. “Tomorrow night, we’ll both be here and fine. Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Montparnasse agrees. “Here and alive.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Barrecarrose.” Claquesous calls. The voice isn’t one Montparnasse recognizes, and when he glances at Gueulemer he only shrugs. “I’m here, as agreed.” 

“Claquesous.” Barrecarrose says, stepping out of the shadows. “Long time no see.”

“I don’t tend to work with your sort.” His voice drips with disdain, and Montparnasse’s fist tightens on his dagger.  _ Come on, Sous, don’t blow this. Not yet. _

“We used to work together all the time.” Barrecarrose says, feigning ignorance. “What are you implying?”

“Let me clarify.” Claquesous says, teeth gritted. “I don’t tend to work with  _ scumbags. _ ”

“And yet, you’re here. Looks like somebody is all talk, no show. You’re just like me, Claquesous.” Claquesous’s fists tighten almost imperceptibly, as Barrecarrose circles him like a shark. “It’s not too late for you, you know. You’re a pretty young thing. You could make a killing, in some of the circles I run in....”

“Not. Interested.” Gueulemer glances at Montparnasse, his eyes shooting daggers, an unspoken question in his body language. Montparnasse shakes his head imperceptibly.  _ Not yet. Wait for the signal. _ Gueul grimaces. From their place in the shadows, it would be too easy to get Barrecarrose. His back is turned, he would never see it coming. But Sous hasn’t given the signal yet. Suddenly though, Claquesous’s whole body language changes, his shoulders loosening and his back straightening.

“You know, Barrecarrose, I do think you’re wrong about something.” Claquesous says, grinning like a wolf who’s found his prey. 

“And what is that?”

“We differ in one very important way. You see, I’m not dumb enough....to bring a gun to a  _ knife _ fight.”

_ Knife. _ That’s the signal. Montparnasse and Gueulemer move as one-Gueulemer grabbing Barrecarrosse’s arms from behind, forcing him to his knees, as Montparnasse twists the gun from his hand.

“Ok there, Sous?” He asks.

“Peachy.” Sous sneers, looking at Barrecarrose with distaste. “Human  _ scum. _ ” Montparnasse snorts, pulling the rope from his belt loop to wrap it around Barrecarrosse’s head, through his mouth, effectively gagging him.

“Up.” He says, and when Barrecarrosse doesn’t obey, Gueulemer tugs his hair sharply, dragging him to his feet.

“He said  _ up. _ ” Gueulemer hisses, a glare deep set on his face. 

“Let’s go.” Claquesous hisses. “You try  _ anything _ and this gets a lot more painful for you, understand?” 

Barrecarrose whimpers something around the gag that might be an agreement and might be a plea for his life. It doesn’t matter either way.

 

* * *

  
  


Daylight comes and finds Les Amis crowded inside Jehan’s basement, a small room that doubles as their bedroom. It’s a somber atmosphere, despite all the activity-Courfeyrac helping people tape cardboard inside their shirts in a way that won’t be too visible, Jehan passing out permanent markers for people to write the numbers of lawyers on their skin.

“Remember.” Combeferre says, from his spot standing on the couch. “What do you say if you’re arrested?”

“I want to speak to a lawyer, I am invoking my right to remain silent.” They all recite in eerie synchronicity, with the tired voices of people who have had to say this hundreds of times.

“Yes. Good.” He runs his hands through his hair. “Enjolras. How are you doing?” 

“I’m fine.” Enjolras answers. He looks tired, pale, and his hair is pulled back in a messy bun Combeferre usually only sees when they’re studying. But there’s a fire in his eyes that Combeferre recognizes. He’s not going down without a fight today.   
None of them are.

“Bahorel and Grantaire will be on the stage with you the whole time. During the march itself, we’ll all be surrounding you, and-”

“Yes, Combeferre. I know.” Enjolras sighs. “I don’t like that part.”

“It’s for your own  _ safety, _ Enjolras. Whether or not you consider yourself our leader, the fact is that everyone else does. The news does, and the cops sure as hell do.”

“I know, I know.” He goes to run a hand through his hair, and then remembers that his hair is in a bun. 

“I have the first aid kit ready.” Joly says, solemnly. “As soon as you’re hurt, come find me. Don’t rely on anyone else.”

“Is everyone ready?” Enjolras asks. “It’s time to go.” There’s a general murmur of assent around the room. “Whatever happens today, I want you to know that I love you all and that you don’t need to do this. It’s not too late to back out. I really, really do understand.” The room is silent enough that you could hear a pin drop. Quietly, Jehan steps forward, smiling gently at him.

“We’re sticking with you Enjolras. We’re going to fight for ourselves and people like us, and we’re going to fight for each other.” He nods, swallowing hard.

“Try your hardest not to get arrested today.” There are some murmurs of comfort among the amis, some presses of hands, some kisses to cheeks and hair. It’s the last moment of comfort they’ll have today. 

“Enjolras.” Grantaire catches his hand, squeezing it lightly.

“Grantaire.” Enjolras manages a smile. 

“Stay safe today, look out for yourself. Don’t worry about the rest of us.”

“I will  _ always _ worry about the rest of you.” Enjolras replies. Grantaire smiles crookedly. 

“There’s the Apollo I know. You ready, Ange?”

“Yes. I’m ready.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The day is just breaking when the trio drag themselves through the front door. For once, none of them are injured, only covered in blood.

“Asshole.” Gueulemer mutters, grimacing down at himself. “Got his fucking blood all over me.”

“Well that’s your own fault, Gueul.” Claquesous says. “Cutting off a finger does tend to make someone bleed.”

“Made him talk too, didn’t it?”

“Never said it didn’t, only that you shouldn’t complain about things very much in your control.”

“Oh my god would the two of you shut the fuck up.” Montparnasse mutters. 

“I’m assuming it went well, then.” Babet says, glancing at the three of them from his spot at the kitchen table. “Debrief me quickly.”

“He talked.” Gueulemer scowls. “Sold out everyone he knew the first chance he got. All it took was one little finger.”

“Well done. What did he say?”

“He was definitely working with Thenardier.” Claquesous says, sitting down heavily in a kitchen chair. “Thenardier is meeting with a supplier next week, along with Poussagrive. The info Fauntleroy gave us matches up. We also found out the name of a few suppliers, none of them surprising. Most interestingly, we found out that Thenardier is planning on making contact soon. He knows where the thenardier kids are and he’s  _ furious. _ ”

“He knows where we are?” Gavroche’s voice is quieter than Montparnasse has ever heard it, and about a million curse words are on the tip of his tongue.

“Hey, Gav. Hey Zelma.” He says, to the children standing in the doorway. “What-what are you doing up so early?”

“We heard voices.” Azelma says softly, clutching her brothers hand. “Our father knows where we are?”

“Yes.” Claquesous says, standing. “But we’re not going to let him find you guys.”

“You can’t be sure of that.” She whispers. Standing up, Claquesous starts towards her, but she shrinks back. That’s when he remembers he’s still covered in blood.

“You three, go shower and change.” Babet says, taking control of the situation. “Gav, Zel, come sit. I’ll make breakfast, and we can talk, okay?”

“Okay.” Gav says, perking up. “Pancakes?”

“Sure.” 

Montparnasse, Claquesous, and Gueulemer exchange glances, and then leave the room as one. 

“Fuck.” Gueulemer breathes, the instant they’re out of earshot.

“Fuck.” Claquesous echoes.

 

* * *

 

 

Eponine isn’t home yet. A full day has passed, a long dreary day of  _ nothing. _ Everything is quiet, too quiet.

Babet knocks on Montparnasse’s door.

“Hey.” He says, quietly. “Word is, Eponine’s been arrested.”

“Goddamnit. Is she alone?” 

“No, a bunch of her friends got arrested too.” 

“Shit.” Montparnasse mutters, burying his face in his hands. “Who?” He knows, he knows exactly who has been arrested, just by the look on Babet’s face.

“The leader, the artist guy, the glittery one, the one who uses the cane....and Jehan.”

“ _ Shit. _ ” He gets to his feet, hands clenched into fists. “Are they okay? What happened? Did-”

“Calm down.” Babet says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know, I don’t know any details. All I know is they’re being released tomorrow morning.”

“Okay.” Montparnasse breathes. “Okay. Tomorrow morning.”

He can’t help but think of Eponine, curled against the wall of a cell, her dark hair covering her face as she glares at everybody within her sight. Of Jehan, their beautiful red hair dirty and tangled, their knees hugged to their chest, their knuckles bruised. He thinks of them spending the night there, surrounded by criminals and gang members and drug dealers-

He feels sick.

“I’m going out.” He mutters, standing up. 

“And where the hell is ‘out’?” Babet asks, crossing his arms. He’s staring Montparnasse down in a way that would be intimidating, if Montparnasse was someone else.

“Guess I’ll see when I get there, won’t I?” He says, and slams the bedroom door behind him.

 

* * *

 

 

Gueulemer is exhausted. There are bags under his eyes, his words are slurring, he’s on his fifth cup of coffee-and Glorieux is laughing himself silly.

“Shut up.” Gueulemer mutters.

“I’ve told you, you should go to bed.” Glorieux only grins. “You don’t sleep for 36 hours, I reserve the right to laugh at you.”

“You’re a fucking asswad.” Gueulemer mutters, and it starts Glorieux off again. “Shut  _ up. _ ”   
“Pray tell,” Glorieux manages. “What-what  _ exactly _ -is an  _ asswad _ ?”

“It’s your stupid fucking face.” Gueulemer takes another sip of his coffee, wincing at the taste, and when he sets it down, Glorieux snags it. 

“I don’t know how you can stand to drink so much of this shit.” He takes a swig, wincing at the overly sugared sweetness, and the fact that it’s about the strongest coffee he’s ever tasted. “Christ.” He mutters, and dumps it down the sink without hesitation. “Go to bed or I’m telling Babet that you spiked that coffee.”

“ _ Barely. _ ” Gueulemer protests. “It was like, the tiniest bit of vodka, he won’t even notice it’s gone.”

“You  _ actually spiked the coffee? _  Fucking hell, Mer.”

“Okay, okay, fine. I’m going to bed.” Gueulemer mutters. His voice hitches strangely. “If-if I start like, screaming or something-”

“I’ll wake you up.” Glorieux promises, his eyes catching Gueulemer’s. “Promise.”

 

* * *

 

 

“What did you end up telling Gav and Zelma?” Sous asks, leaning against the kitchen counter. Babet sets down the dish he’s washing, turning the water off.

“Well-” He grabs a dishrag to dry his hands as he’s speaking. “I told them that yeah, their dad knew they were with us. I said that we would never let anything happen to either of them, no matter what. Zel didn’t exactly seem happy about that, so I added that we’re tracking him down, and we’re going to get to him before he gets to us. That cheered her up.”

“Good.” Sous murmurs. “Good. They sleeping now, then?”   
“Yeah. I gave them Montparnasse’s bed, since both Parnasse and Eponine are out tonight.”

“Wait, what?” He frowns.

“Eponine was arrested at that protest-” Claquesous makes an angry sound, running a hand through his hair. “And Montparnasse stormed out about two hours ago, when I told him.”

“ _ Bordel de merde. _ ” Sous mutters. “Drama queen.”

“You’re telling me. Any idea where he went?”

“None at all. Probably getting drunk or high or something.”

“Well, as long as he didn’t drag any of the others with him.”   


“Nah. Bizarro and Brujon are playing uno, and she’s losing pretty badly. Gueul’s asleep. Glorieux nearly ripped my head off just for walking past their door.” Babet gives him a look and he grins almost imperceptibly. “I may have made an allusion as to why the two of them were shut up in their bedroom alone, so early in the night.” Babet throws the dishtowel at him, and Claquesous laughs, the sound not as familiar as Babet would like. 

“Leave them alone, it’s been a long night for all of us.”

“Okay,  _ dad. _ ” Claquesous snarks. Even though it’s sarcastic, Babet can’t help but smile at being called that.

“Get out of here, before I make you help me with these dishes.” He threatens, and Claquesous leaves so fast he may as well have vanished.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this story,,,,has no ending in sight,,,,like I legitimately have no idea how to end it kjhfgjfjkgdfhf (but I had better find a way soon bc NaNoWriMo is coming up)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for mentioned violence and police brutality, mentions of blood,,,,,sadness????

The carpet is rough against Claquesous’s feet, the silvery remnants of moonlight making it look softer than it really is. He walks the apartment silently, too wired to sleep and nowhere near in the mood to leave. It’s too quiet, even though he usually thrives on the absence of noise.

Tonight it’s less a comfort and more unsettling than anything.

There’s a sound, the faintest creak of the wooden floor, and he’s on guard immediately. It came from Montparnasse’s room, which means Gavroche and Azelma. His hands tightening into fists, he steps down the hallway, towards the bedroom. It’s Azelma, he can tell, because Gavroche wouldn’t be able to stay quiet this long. Sure enough, when he steps into the room, she’s standing at the window. Her shoulders are hunched in, arms curled around herself, and from the way she’s shaking she could be crying. He takes a step towards her, making a soft sound so she knows he’s there. She doesn’t turn, but when he puts a hand on her shoulder, she leans towards him.

“Ponine-” She starts. “Ponine is always here.  _ Always. _ ” And Claquesous knows what she means, knows that she’s really saying  _ I need her _ and  _ I don’t feel safe without her here _ . Looking at her positively tiny self, the way her eyes are wide and vulnerable and tear-filled, he feels protective in a way he rarely does.

“You should try and go back to sleep now, Zelma.” He tells her, and she shakes her head frantically. 

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Come on, in you get-and put some blankets on, it’s fucking cold.” She does as she’s told, crawling underneath the blankets next to her brother, and he sits on the edge of the bed.

“ _ Hunan blentyn, are fy mynwes _ .” He starts. His voice is rough from disuse, but she recognizes the song instantly, a smile etching itself onto her face. “C _ lyd a chynnes ydyw hon _ .”

“ _ Breichiau mam sy'n dyn amdanat.”  _ She joins in, eyes closing already. He continues singing for a moment, right up until the chorus, but she’s already asleep. He stands to leave, and that’s when he catches sight of a familiar head of purple hair in the doorway.

“Beautiful.” They say, softly, and they’re staring at him in a way that makes him feel weirdly light. Untethered.

“Don’t tell anyone.” He manages, and they flash a grin.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

* * *

 

 

Montparnasse thinks the memory of seeing Jehan in a cell, curled over and silent, might haunt him forever. Even now, they’re not speaking, arms curled around them. He thinks their legs might give out at any moment, the way they’re wobbling. 

As for Eponine, she’s silent too, but in an angrier way. More defiant. Her glare could cut glass and her fists could leave bruises, but there’s something behind her eyes that speaks of fear. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks.

“Fine.” Eponine mutters.

“Not the first time I’ve been arrested.” Jehan says, their voice hoarse from god knows what. That doesn’t really answer his question, but at least they’re responding. He pulls the key out of his pocket, unlocking the door, and Eponine wastes no time walking in. She’s looking for Gav and Zelma, he knows. Jehan is still clutching at his hand, so tightly he’s not sure if they’re ever going to let go.

“Coming in?” He asks, and they nod. So he leads them inside, hoping nothing too illegal is going on. It looks to be pretty straightforward-Claquesous lounging on the couch on his phone, Bizarro doing some sort of workout, Gueulemer cooking pancakes for Gavroche and Azelma as Eponine fusses over the two. It’s quiet, and he breathes a sigh of relief. Down the hall they go, into his bedroom. It’s dark, the curtains are pulled, and he opens them to let some light in as Jehan sits down at the edge of his bed.

“So.” He tries to make his voice as gentle as possible. Like he isn’t still pissed off, like he doesn’t want to take his fists, his knife, to every person who ever dared hurt them, like he doesn’t want to pull them closely to him and clutch them to his chest, never let them leave again. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Jehan looks up at him, their eyes huge and red, and he feels a tightness in his throat as he takes their hand.

“It wasn’t-it wasn’t supposed to get violent.” They start. “I mean, we knew it would. We knew the police would get involved, that’s what they fucking  _ do _ -“ Their voice chokes off, and they swallow hard. “It was supposed to be peaceful. And then they started throwing the tear gas, Parnasse. It was everywhere, I couldn’t see, I couldn’t breathe, it  _ burned- _ And Combeferre was trying to help get these  _ kids _ away from the riot shields, and Feuilly was helping Joly tape Courf’s ribs-and Enj got hit by a cop. He got hit and I  _ saw  _ Grantaire moving, and Enj was on his knees already, but they wouldn’t  _ stop- _ And Grantaire, he grabbed the cops arm, and Eponine had the other guy-It all happened so fast, Parnasse, I can’t-I don’t-“

“Shhhh.” He soothes, his hand rubbing their arm gently. He’s at an awkward angle, both of them sitting on the edge of the bed, him turned towards them as they try to curl into themself as much as they can. “It’s okay, Jehan. I promise, it’s okay.”

“I saw it all happen.” They whisper. “I saw Courf get kicked, I saw the cop who put Eponine on the ground, I saw Combeferre get it in the head with a can of tear gas, because he was trying to protect those teenagers, those kids-We didn’t do anything, Parnasse, we didn’t, we just-“ They look at him, their lip quivering, and he’s not surprised when their breaths turn to sobs. He moves until they’re leaning against him, until their face is buried in his chest and their fingers are clutching the collar of his shirt. They’re still sobbing, gasping for breath, and he rubs comforting circles on their back. Panic, anger, sadness-these are things he knows how to deal with.

“It’s all right.” He murmurs into their hair. “You’re okay now, you’re home now, you’re all right. Everything’s all right.” They only sob harder, their fingers digging into his collar.

“They d-idn’t-they didn’t ca-care.” Jean manages through their tears. “I was begging-I kept saying stop stop  _ stop, _ you’re hu-hurting them, you’re hurting me _ , _ and they never-I co-couldn’t-“ There’s blood caked under their nails, he realizes for the first time, and dirt in their hair. They smell like tear gas and blood, like they’ve been through hell and back. 

He murmurs nonsense comfort words into their hair, holds them, strokes their back, until their breaths slow and their fingers loosen on his shirt. He holds them until they’ve worn themself out, until they can’t cry anymore. And then, since they’re basically in his lap, he picks them up gently.

“What are you doing?” They ask, even as they put their arms around his neck to better hold on.

“You need a shower.” He reminds them. “It will make you feel better. I promise.”

“I don’t want to be alone.” They mumble, tightening their hold around his neck. 

“Only for a few minutes.” He reassures them. “Just the time it takes to wash, and I’ll be right outside the door the whole time.” He sets them down in front of the door as he says this, and they look at him for a long moment, before taking his hand and pulling him into the bathroom with them. He turns away as they pull off their shirt, and after a moment he hears the water start running. The bathroom fills with steam pretty quickly, and he’s sure they’ve turned the water to the hottest setting. 

He pretends not to hear it when their breaths turn to sobs again, knowing there’s nothing he can do.

At last, at last, the water turns off, and he turns his back again. When Jehan takes his hand, they’re wearing the overlarge t-shirt he’d given them, and they look so small it almost hurts.

“Any better?” He asks, and they nod gratefully.

“Yeah. Thank you.”

“Of course.” 

They fall asleep quickly, curled up next to him, as he holds them tightly. He spares a moment to be angry at the cops, at the protest, at anyone who thought they could harm Jehan Prouvaire-

And then he lets go of that, and focuses on them, sleeping in his arms.

 

* * *

 

 

Eponine is at the kitchen table, a bruise blooming on her cheekbone, sipping a cup of coffee in her hands.

“Hey.” Sous says. She looks up.

“Hey. What’s up?”

“Do you have a moment?” She glances over at Gav and Zelma, busy pestering Gueulemer with questions about Doctor Who, and half grins.

“Yeah, I think so. What do you need?” He jerks his head towards the living room, motioning for her to follow him.

“We’ve almost got your dad.” He says, in a voice low enough that he can’t be heard from the kitchen.

“Good.” She replies. “Kill the bastard.” He smiles mercilessly.

“That’s the plan, ‘ponine. That’s the plan.”

“That all?”

“Put some ice on that bruise. Green eyeshadow and then some foundation if you want to cover it up.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You okay?” Cosette asks. Eponine doesn’t turn around, worried that if she looks in Cosette’s eyes, she won’t be able to lie.   
“I’m fine.” She says. “Been worse.” And that part isn’t a lie. Cosette makes a noise of concern, touching Eponine’s arm lightly.

“You can talk to me, Ep. Promise. You don’t have to lie.”

“How are  _ you, _ Cosette.” Eponine asks, turning. She doesn’t look her in the eyes.

“Scared.” Cosette answers honestly. “Scared and angry and tired. Fuck, Ponine, I’m so tired of this shit.”

“Me too.” Eponine admits, finally looking up. She sees Cosette try to hide a wince at the bruise still stained on her cheekbone, like a smudge of ink. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Does it hurt?” Cosette asks, softly. Eponine shakes her head, but the way she swallows a bit too hard tells Cosette that she’s lying again. She tends to do that a lot, when it comes to her own pain.

“Stop lying, Ponine. It’s okay if it hurts.”

“Aches like a bitch.” Eponine manages. “Worth it though.”

“ _ Worth _ it?” Cosette frowns. 

“Well, yeah. I distracted that asshole long enough to get him away from y-from people, didn’t I?”

“Ponine.” The officer Eponine had antagonized to get him away from Cosette. In the confusion and pain of the tear gas and the smoke and the screaming, she hadn’t seen- “You-he did that to you, because of me?”

“No, he did that to me because I called him a bigoted douchewipe. It wasn’t your fault.” She frowns. “I shouldn’t’ve said anything, I-”

“Ponine.” Cosette says again. “Oh my god, you wonderful idiot, shut up and let me kiss you.” Eponine makes some sort of strangled sound in the back of her throat, eyes going wide.

“I.” She manages. “Yes.” 

That’s all Cosette needs to grab Eponine by her collar, standing on her tiptoes (damn Eponine and her combat boots) to press her lips firmly to Eponine’s. 

In the background, Grantaire hands Montparnasse a five dollar bill.

“I told you Cosette would make the first move.”

“Excuse me for having faith in Eponine. Clearly more than she deserved.”

Eponine flips him off without breaking the kiss, and then moves to tangle her hands in Cosette’s hair. Grantaire sighs, half amused and half exasperated.

“Woah, okay, guys we’re-we’re still in school, we’re in the middle of the  _ hallway- _ ” 

 

* * *

 

 

“Gueulemer,” Fauntleroy calls, “Did you take the last of the hot chocolate?”

“....no.” Gueulemer says, setting down a mug of something that looks suspiciously hot and chocolatey. “It was....Brujon. Brujon did it.”

“Well.” Fauntleroy says. “Tell  _ Brujon _ that he needs to get some more tonight or we’re going to have a problem.” Gueulemer rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Calm down. I’ll send Sous and Parnasse out to do some grocery shopping later.” With a sigh, they sit down next to him at the table, resting their head on a hand, and he glances over at them out of the corner of his eye. 

“Tired?” He asks, with a grin. “I hear it was a pretty late night for Sous too...” They roll their eyes at the implication, but he doesn’t miss the flush on their cheeks.

“Shut up.” They tell him. “You shouldn’t talk, Gueul.” He only shrugs, taking another sip of his hot chocolate. 

“Babet in?” He asks.

“Not sure, I haven’t seen him yet. Why?”

“We’ve got to have a plan for next week. We aren’t letting Thenardier get away this time.” They look at him, and his expression is dark, hair covering his eyes.

“And who’s coming?” They ask lightly.

“Well, we’ll need you of course. Sous. Parnasse. Me. Glorieux.”

“Brujon and Bizarro?”

“Depends. I don’t know how we’re going in.”

“Hm.” The sunlight is filtering through the window softly, and it’s a stark contrast to the conversation. “And what if it goes wrong, Gueul?”   
“I don’t know.” He admits. “Babet won’t let that happen.”

_ It won’t really be up to Babet  _ Fauntleroy thinks to themself. They don’t voice it.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT BC I SOMEHOW FORGOT-  
> The song Sous sings is called Suo Gân and its a welsh lullaby, its gorgeous


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw for alchohol, mentions of injury, and a makeout scene written by an inexperienced and incompetent author  
> (this will probably be the last chapter for a while as it's almost NaNoWriMo)

“-no, wait!” Azelma shrieks. Babet wastes no time stepping through the door, hand moving towards the knife at his side.   
There are pillows thrown on the floor, couch cushions in weird places, and the coffee table is moved.

“Babet!” Gavroche shrieks. “The floor is lava!” Azelma is perched on the arm of the couch, Gavroche is stood on the coffee table, Eponine is sat off to the side looking as though she’ll never stop laughing, and  _ Montparnasse,  _  of all people, is somehow crouching on the back of Babet’s favorite chair. He looks smaller, thinner, without his leather jacket on, and the absence of his eyeliner only serves to make him look younger. 

“You heard them, Babet.” Montparnasse says with more than a touch of humor in his voice. “Floor is lava.” 

“Put the living room back the way it was when you’re done.” Babet sighs, and Montparnasse only grins. 

 

* * *

 

“Morning, Sous.” Fauntleroy yawns, sitting at the kitchen table. He glances over at them, something in his stomach twisting at the sight of their sleep rumpled hair, the way their tank top is falling off their shoulder.

“Good morning, Fauntleroy.” Their eyes are half closed as they grab at the pot of coffee, and he very nearly smiles.  “Sugar?” He asks, instead, holding the bowl towards them. They nod gratefully, and he spares a moment wondering how he knows that they like their coffee ridiculously sweet, before waving the thought away. 

“Sleep well?” They ask him, after a moment.

“Not badly. You?”

“Same as ever.” They’re staring out the window, gaze fixed on something he can’t see, and the sunlight makes their skin gleam. “What are you so lost in thought about,  _ Bouqetiere? _ ” They start, glancing at him. 

“How did you know that nickname?”

“Zarbi told me.” He looks down at his hands. “Of course, if you prefer I don’t use it-”

“No!” They blurt, eyes wide and earnest. “No, I-It just startled me. Of course you can use it.” Their eyes dart to his, shyly, and then away. “...I quite like it.” The barest of smiles graces his face, and they must see it, because there’s a soft smile growing on their face as well. 

“All right.” He hums, standing up. His fingers are inches away from theirs, and it’s all he can do not to reach out and take them in his own. “Well, I should be going. I’ll see you later, Faun.”

“Goodbye, Sous.” They grin at him, eyes filled with a strange sort of light, and he can’t remember the last time it cost him this much effort not to touch someone. He still remembers the softness of their hands, the way they’d looked cloaked in the darkness, and he wants to take their face in his hands, wants to see if they still taste of the sugar they love so much. He banishes that thought to some deep corner of his mind, where it belongs, and walks out without any further preamble-lest he do something stupid.

He doesn’t see the way Fauntleroy starts dancing with joy around the kitchen practically the instant he’s gone, or the way they press both hands to their mouth to contain some sound between a laugh and a squeal.

 

* * *

  
  


“You’ll be late for class, Montparnasse.” Jehan says, not moving their arms from their tight grip around his waist. He tightens his own grip around their shoulders, burying his face in their hair.

“Then I’m late.” He murmurs. They half smile, their breath warm against his collarbone.

“You really should leave.”

“Something tells me you don’t mean that.”

In answer, they tighten their grip, and he grins. 

“Prouvaire. Montparnasse.” A teacher across the hallway snaps. “Get to class.” Jehan lifts their head up to look at the teacher-and instead of reacting with anger like Montparnasse would, he watches them drop their jaw in sadness, tears filling their eyes. The bruise on their cheekbone is a stark contrast against their pale skin, and the teacher starts, guiltily.

“Please, miss, just-just a moment, I promise.”

“That’s quite all right, Jehan.” She says quietly. “Take as much time as you need. You were caught up in that nasty protest business, I heard.” Jehan nods, and Montparnasse is pretty sure that the way they’re digging their nails into his back is quite real, not just a show of sadness. He pulls them a bit closer, dropping a kiss to their forehead, and they look away, swallowing hard.

“Maybe you should go to the nurses office.” She offers. “I’m sure they’ll have a room you can rest in, dear. You must be stressed.”

“I-I may.” Jehan says faintly. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“Here, dear, I’ll write you a pass.” Montparnasse is almost worried, wondering if this is still a game or if Jehan is genuinely upset, but then they look up at him. There’s a twinkle in their eyes that he knows well, and he almost smiles. Almost. 

“Please, could-could you write one for Parnasse too?” They ask, and their voice breaks. She nods, and disappears into her classroom.

“Devious little bird.” He murmurs into their hair, and they half smile.

“Would you like me any other way?”

* * *

  
  


“You know what I can’t figure out.” Fauntleroy says, and both Gueulemer and Claquesous look up. The room is silent, but for the three of them working at their respective things (Gueulemer is sewing, Claquesous reading, and Fauntleroy doing something with bones that Gueulemer decidedly does not want to pay attention to.)

“What?” Gueulemer asks, and they turn to him. 

“Why  _ you _ keep lying to Gavroche.” He looks away guiltily, as if he doesn’t know what to say, and they frown at him. “He’s got to know you’re not in school at some point.”

“Look. I lied once and now I’m in too deep. What was I supposed to say? ‘I’m going on a job with Babet to make sure our supplier doesn’t stiff us, or I might have to shake some cash loose from him’? I don’t think so.”

“Just do what I do.” Claquesous doesn’t look up from his book. “Say you’re going out. Vague enough that it doesn’t matter.”

“Sous,” Fauntleroy says, exasperated. “You  _ actually go to school. _ ”

“Not for much longer.” Claquesous rolls his eyes. “I’m almost nineteen. I graduate in...a couple months.”

“Wish I had gotten to graduate.” Faun grimaces. “I left earlier this year. I’d be graduating, too.” Claquesous hums, noncommittally, and the room falls silent again. After a moment, Gueulemer stands up, stretching. Faun watches from the corner of their eye as he gathers up his fabric, and disappears down the hall. They hear the sewing machine start up, and only then do they speak.

“Claquesous?” They ask, glancing up at him. “What will you do when you graduate?” Claquesous isn’t wearing a mask, but it hardly matters, because his features are stone.

“Get an apartment with Parnasse.” He doesn’t look at them, but they think he must see the way their mouth draws itself into a line. He’s good at that, good at seeing things others don’t. 

“Oh.” They reply, softly.

“This house is getting crowded.” He says, almost offhandedly. “I’ll still go on jobs, but this will give everyone a bit of...breathing room, I suppose.” They nod, but all they can think is that Claquesous will be gone, no longer sitting at the breakfast table with them, no longer trading knife tricks, no more seeing those rare, quiet moments of vulnerability they’ve learned to cherish.

“Of course.” They say. “If you’ll excuse me...” He nods, and they leave the room quietly.

Claquesous can all but taste the disappointment in the air, and curses himself out for a long moment-silently, of course.

 

* * *

 

“Babet.” Gav tugs on his arm. 

“Yeah?” He asks, looking down at the boy. “What is it?” 

“Are you okay?” The question is a simple one, but it takes him by surprise even so.

“What do you mean?” Gav shrugs. 

“When Ponine drinks that gross clear stuff, it usually means she needs a hug and some movies. Sometimes she cries but Zelma and I don’t mind.” 

“I-” Babet starts, and then sets the glass of vodka down. “What do you mean?”

“Well, she doesn’t get mean when she drinks that, like dad does. Just sad.” And Babet can’t help but think that Gavroche is too young to know about these things, too young to have dealt with what he has, and Eponine is too young to be going through all the shit she is, and his own kids-

He’s not sure when he started thinking of them as his kids, but it’s the truth. Claquesous, Gueulemer, Brujon, Montparnasse, Glorieux-all of them are like his own children, like his own blood, and he loves them more than he ever could have guessed. And they’re all so  _ young- _

“I’m fine.” He tells Gavroche, and the boy nods. 

“Do you need a hug anyway? Ponine says I’m good at hugs.”

“Sure.” Babet says, taking himself by surprise. Gavroche jumps at him almost immediately, throwing his arms arms around Babet’s waist. Babet, unsure what to do, settles for putting a hand on the top of the kids head.

“Better?” Gavroche asks, and Babet almost smiles.

“Sure.”

* * *

 

Sometimes, Babet forgets that they’re only children. They’re all too mature in the face, too tired, their eyes too haunted. Today, though, he can’t stop thinking about it.

“You okay?” He asks Claquesous, echoing Gavroche’s words, and the boy looks up at him with a type of exhaustion that a nineteen year old shouldn’t have.

“Fine. Why do you ask?” There’s still blood on his face, smudged at his hairline, like he’s forgotten it’s there. Babet gets an absurd mental image of him as a belligerent toddler, more food smeared on his face than there is in his stomach. A child. He’s a child. 

“Babet?” Claquesous asks, snapping him back to the present. “Dude, you...kinda look like you’re gonna cry or some shit.”

“You’re all so fucking young.” Babet says, surprising himself with the hoarseness of his voice. “You’re children, for Christ’s sake. You shouldn’t be living like this.”

“Okay.” Claquesous leans forward. “What’s causing this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, this crisis of conscience. I thought you were better than that, Babet.” The man attempts a smile but it falls flat almost instantly.

“You all could have had normal lives. Been normal people. Instead, you’re-you’re thieves and murderers and criminals, and you get hurt, and-“ He shakes his head. Claquesous rolls his eyes, moving to stand up. 

“Okay, fine. Normal childhoods? Let’s play that out. Montparnasse was the kid of a druggie and a prostitute. His best friend was the daughter of two criminals who regularly ran drugs. He grew up surrounded by violence, he helped Ponine raise two kids, he lived on the streets sometimes. How normal do you think his life would have been? Then there’s Brujon, former juvie trash who knew every guard by name. That sound normal to you? Bizarro, kicked out of her house for being trans. Gueulemer, homeless at eleven because that was preferable to the homes they put him in. And me. If I hadn’t found you guys, it’s not like I’d even be alive to have a normal future.” He huffs, hoping his tone masks the truth behind his words. “So don’t start. You gave us all a home, a family. And that’s already better than anything we had.”

“Who knew you could be so sentimental?” Babet manages, trying to sound teasing. Sous snorts.

“Shut your damn mouth and turn on the tv.” 

* * *

 

“Come on.” Gueulemer says, and Glorieux looks up.

“Where are we going?”

“Out.” Gueulemer says simply. “I’m sick of this place, I want to  _ go _ somewhere.” Glorieux rolls his eyes.

“Is this somewhere going to involve alcohol?” Gueulemer only grins, and Glorieux sighs. “You’re  _ seventeen, _ exactly how do you think you’re going to get in?”

“We have fake ID’s for a  _ reason, _ Glor.” He says. “Besides, I look older than I am.” He winks, and Glorieux resists the urge to sigh. “Coming or not?”

“Coming, of course.”

  
  


A hand brushes against Glorieux’s arm and he yanks his hand back, fingers curling into a fist. He hates bars, they’re so loud and crowded and too hot. You can’t tell who’s got what under their coats, how much anybody has had to drink, and nobody has any inhibitions. It’s a disaster waiting to happen. 

He spots Gueulemer then, glowing blue in the lights, his hair pushed back. He’s moving his hips, his shoulders, dancing in a way Glorieux so rarely sees, his face free of anger for once. And this, he thinks, is the reason he puts up with these places in the first place.

As if he can read his thoughts, Gueulemer moves towards him, the lights around him only adding to the dark look in his eyes. 

“Glorieux.” He says. There’s a smile on his face, even as he presses closer to Glorieux, wraps his arms around his neck. Glorieux knows he’s drunk, he doesn’t mean any of it, he knows he should pull away before either of them does anything they regret. But Gueulemer’s hand is in his hair, tangled in his curls, and their bodies are pressed so closely he doesn’t know where he ends and Gueulemer begins. Maybe it’s a bad idea, maybe they’re both too drunk for this, maybe the club is getting to him. But he can’t bring himself to pull away from Gueulemer. Who knows when (or if) this will happen again?

“What is this about?” Glorieux asks, their noses inches apart. Gueulemer is only a few inches taller than him, but he knows that it won’t be long before the younger man towers over him.

“What do you mean?” Gueulemer murmurs, his eyes catching Glorieux’s.

“We don’t usually do this.”  _ We don’t usually cross this line. We don’t usually acknowledge...whatever this is. _

Gueulemer leans forward, his lips mere inches from Glorieux’s ear, his breath in Glorieux’s cheek.

“Maybe you just looked too pretty, standing there in the lights.” Gueulemer whispers, in a way that sends shivers up Glorieux’s spine. He thinks his knees might go weak too, but he doesn’t know-he‘s pressed too closely into Gueulemer, so closely that they’re bearing each other’s weight, clinging tightly. “Maybe I couldn’t resist.” He doesn’t pull back, doesn’t move his head away, and the way Gueulemer’s breath is warming his neck is doing something funny to his stomach. Instead, Gueulemer moves closer, which Glorieux didn’t realize was possible. His lips brush against the skin of Glorieux’s jawline, and Glorieux’s hands tighten against the back of his shirt inadvertently. Gueulemer only chuckles, and presses another kiss to Glorieux’s jawline, his hand tugging sharply on Glorieux’s hair to pull his head back. Glorieux manages to turn his head, and Gueulemer’s lips catch his own. He smiles, but doesn’t pull away, as Glorieux’s hand moves to the back of his head to press them more firmly together. Glorieux is on fire, every nerve ending lighting at once. He can’t breathe, he can’t think-nothing matters except Gueulemer’s lips on his, the bass of the music reverberating in his chest, the heat of Gueulemer wrapped around him.

“Holy fuck.” Glorieux mumbles against Gueulemer’s mouth. Gueulemer only laughs, and presses their mouths back together.

Glorieux knows this doesn’t mean anything, he knows that Gueulemer is drunk off his ass and probably won’t even remember this, that Glorieux is only a friend to him.

But just for now, he lets himself get lost in the moment. He lets himself pretend it’s something more than it is.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay I couldn't resist the angst but this really is the last chapter until after november. CW for injury and a lot of violence.

“Ready?” Montparnasse asks, glancing around. Claquesous, face hidden in his mask. Fauntleroy, vibrant curls sprayed dark for the night. (He thinks its only for the night. He’s never actually seen Fauntleroy dye their hair...they just appear sometimes with different colored hair. Everybody accepts it, because what else can they do?)

“Ready.” Gueulemer says, adjusting the knife he has hidden in his boot. He doesn’t look over at Glorieux. The two haven’t spoken about _it_ , about the club. Gueulemer doesn’t know if Glorieux even remembers what happened.

Gueulemer doesn’t know if he’ll ever forget it.

“Ready.” Claquesous echoes, in a voice not his own. Nobody is surprised. Faun, though, is admittedly slightly unnerved. Claquesous’s voice, his _real_ voice, is something they’ve always treasured. Before jobs, when they hear him speaking in a different voice, getting used to the feel of it, they can never quite suppress their unease. It’s not Claquesous, not the Claquesous they know. He’s good at changing his identity-his appearance, his voice, his mannerisms. But Fauntleroy misses the man that they actually know.

Sometimes, in the dark of the night, they have to wonder if the man they know _is_ the real Claquesous, or just another facade, another of his many selves. And then they put that thought out of their mind, because if this isn’t the real Claquesous, if the man the know isn’t his true self...they’re not sure they want to know.

“Let’s move.” Montparnasse says, and they fall into position easily-Montparnasse and Claquesous in front, Gueulemer, Glorieux, and Fauntleroy flanking them. They make no sound, even in the abandoned building.

“Something is off about this.” Gueulemer mutters under his breath, and Montparnasse grimaces. He’s not wrong. Something feels off. Wrong. Thenardier was supposed to be here by now-

That’s when all hell breaks loose. Both doors open at the same time, and Thenardier’s men enter the room in the most disorderly way possible. There’s at least ten, maybe more-Montparnasse is too busy drawing his gun from his waistband. Claquesous, armed with his throwing knives, already has them in hand. Patron Minette becomes a blur of motion, Gueulemer swinging fists, Claquesous’s knives gleaming as they fly through the air, Fauntleroy darting through the men, slashing and stabbing. They’re outnumbered, and Thenardier’s men are all the sort to fight dirty-but Patron Minette never goes down without a fight. And today, they’re fighting like hell.

When the bloodbath ends, Fauntleroy is soaked in it. Gueulemer’s knuckles are split and bleeding-and so is his lip, one of his teeth chipped and jagged. Montparnasse has a rather spectacular gash on his cheekbone (“Who the hell wears a _ring_ to this sort of thing?”) It’s Glorieux, eye blackened and nose bleeding, that starts laughing.

“What the hell.” He wheezes. “He-he really sent all those men after us.” Claquesous cracks a rare grin.

“So scared of a few children.” He says, and his voice is his own once more. Fauntleroy could kiss him, they think, elated. They settle for throwing themselves in his arms, burying their face in the crook of his neck.

“Jesus christ.” They breathe through their laughter.

“Clearly,” Montparnasse says, grinning, “He didn’t send _enough_ men.” Gueulemer throws an arm around his shoulders, smiling widely, and glances around the room. A thought hits him then.

“Fucking Thenardier.” He says, his face falling. “That fucking weasel didn’t even come himself.”

“Of course he didn’t-” Fauntleroy starts, but Gueulemer shakes his head.

“This was a fucking _distraction._ ” The room falls silent, his words sinking in.   
“Shit.” Montparnasse curses. “We have no way to know where the fuck he is.”

“ _Bordel de merde._ ” Claquesous hisses, his voice rough.

“Babet is going to be _pissed._ ”

 

* * *

 

It’s a quiet morning. The suns rays barely reach the kitchen, just enough that it’s dimly lit and glowing golden, long shadows cast by the figures standing at the counter. Neither says anything. Gueulemer has an apple in his hand, that he has yet to take a bite of, and his knuckles are still bleeding. Glorieux hasn’t bothered to touch his cereal, the fruit loops getting soggier by the minute. Now that the adrenaline is gone, the fearless feeling that the night brings melted away, the reality has set in. And the reality is that they could have been killed. The reality is that Thenardier is still out there, and they’ve failed, and none of them know how to fix it.

“Glor.” Gueulemer starts. His voice is hoarse, shaky, and Glorieux tries hard not to notice the way his voice breaks.

“Yeah?” He asks, tiredly.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah.” He nods tiredly, turning his face. With the shadows obscuring him, Glorieux almost can’t see his black eye.

“Shit, Glor. He got you good.” Glorieux touches his still bleeding lip, grimacing.

“Yeah, well. We got him better.”

“Yeah.” Neither of them really knows what to say. There’s tension in the air, uncertainty and fear. Gueulemer is tapping his foot restlessly, swallowing hard.

“Hell of a night.” He manages.

“Haven’t had a job go that badly in a while.” Glor agrees, grimacing. “Have you heard anything from Babet yet?” He knows the answer. Babet’s been radio silent since they got home, since he stormed out the door already yelling into his phone, since they all collapsed in a pile of exhaustion and too many bruises on the couch

“No. He’s still dealing with the mess.”

On an impulse, Glorieux reaches out his hand, grabbing Gueulemer’s arm.

“Hey.” He says. “It’s okay, Mer. We’re both okay.” Gueulemer nods, biting his lip, and Glorieux tugs on his arm until he’s close enough to pull Gueulemer into a hug. He feels Gueulemer’s shoulders relax, as Glorieux wraps his arms around him. He buries his face in Glor’s shoulder, his breaths still shaky, as Glorieux holds tighter.

“Everything’s fine.” He says. “Everything’s good. We’re okay.”

“We’re okay.” Gueulemer agrees.  

 

* * *

 

 

“Sous?” Fauntleroy mumbles, reaching out to kick at his ankle.

“You should take a shower.” He says, not moving an inch himself. “Covered in blood. It’s gross.”

“It’s dried. Sous?”

“What?”

“You okay?”

“Of course I am. You?”

“I guess, yeah. Tired and sore.”

“Go take a shower.”

“I don’t want to _move._ ”

“Would you both _shut the fuck up._ ” Montparnasse says, throwing a pillow at Claquesous’s head.

“Fuck off.” Claquesous mutters, halfheartedly kicking at his leg.

“Don’t you all look chipper.” Brujon says, from the doorway, and they all groan as one.

“Go _away_.” They say, in the same breath.

Brujon is freaked out enough that he turns and leaves without further comment.

 

* * *

 

 

Babet comes home late that night, with takeout bags and a somber expression. He sets the food on the coffee table silently. As if by some mutual agreement, all Patron minette gathers around the coffee table, nobody speaking.  
“I know where Thenardier is.” He says, face grave. “Got a message to him, told him we just want to talk. We both agreed to come alone and unarmed.”

“No way in hell-” Claquesous starts, but Babet raises a hand to silence him.

“Obviously, neither of us are doing that.” Claquesous scowls, but Gueulemer says

“I’ll go.” Babet starts, looking over at him.

“Like hell you will, Gueulemer.”

“No, hear me out. Thenardier will be expecting _you,_ so if someone else goes-”

“That’s pretty flimsy reasoning.”

“You can’t go.” Gueulemer says, and Babet thinks there’s a hint of desperation in his voice. “If something goes wrong, we’ll need you prepared and ready to help deal with it, yeah? We can’t let him take down the head of the beast.” He’s right. As much as it makes Montparnasse’s blood boil, as much as it unnerves Claquesous-without Babet, Patron Minette is nothing.

Glorieux stands.

“If he’s going, I’m going too.”

“No, I-” Gueulemer starts, but Babet shoots him a long, level look.

“I don’t like it.” He says, and turns to Glorieux. “You’ll stay safe?” Glorieux nods solemnly. There’s a promise in his eyes, dark and serious, and they both know what he’s really thinking.

_I’ll keep him safe._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Gueulemer’s hands are shaking. There’s a bad feeling in the air tonight, it’s thick with tension and a sickening sense of foreboding. Something is wrong. He dismisses it as inevitable dread of what’s about to happen, deciding instead to focus on him impatience.

“Would you hurry the fuck up?” He hisses at Glorieux, who is picking the lock.

“Calm down, Mer, you’re not going to turn into a pumpkin.”

“No, I’ll just be fucking irritated. Come on.” Glorieux opens his mouth to retort, but then the lock clicks open, and he grins in satisfaction.

“Happy now?” He asks.

“Hardly.” Gueulemer pulls out the knife he has hidden in the heel of his boot, and proceeds inside, scanning the room with a practiced eye. There’s nothing to suggest that anything is amiss, but that doesn’t mean anything. “See anything?” He asks Glorieux.

“Not so far, no.” There’s still time to get in position, to wait for Thenardier and whoever else he brings.  
As if on cue, the door opens again. It’s Thenardier, holding his hands out in front of him.

“Well now.” He says, looking Gueulemer up and down. Glorieux has melted into the shadows somewhere, and Gueulemer’s knife has disappeared into his waistband. _Alone and unarmed,_ Gueulemer thinks to himself. “You’re not who I expected, boy, but I guess you’ll do.” He grins, and snaps his fingers.

That’s when all hell breaks loose.

Gueulemer spins around as a shot rings out, loud enough to make his ears ring. Glorieux is on his knees, and a man stands above him, brandishing his still-smoking gun. Poussagrive.

“Looky here.” He grins crookedly.

“Shit.” Gueulemer says, surprised. The ambush is the wrong way around. All he can think is that Glorieux is hurt, and this wasn’t a part of the plan. It’s going to be a hell of a lot harder to fight their way out like this.

“Thought you was gonna ambush us?” Thenardier draws his gun, pointing it at Gueulemer. “You’re just a kid. You really thought you could outsmart a coupla grown men?”

“You okay?” Gueulemer asks Glorieux, not taking his eyes off Thenardier.

“I’ll walk it off.” Glorieux manages.

“I don’t think you’ll be walking much, soon.” Poussagrive says, pressing his own gun to the back of Glorieux’s head. “What about you, Thenardier?”

“Nah. He ain’t gonna be walking anywhere.”

“Let him go.” Gueulemer spits through gritted teeth. Poussagrive scoffs.

“Oh sure. Since you asked so nicely.” He prods Glorieux in the back of the head with the gun, and Gueulemer’s blood is boiling.

Glorieux looks up, meeting Gueulemer’s eyes, and nods.

They move at the same time, Gueulemer going for Thenardier to jam his knife deep in the man’s chest. Glorieux grabs Poussagrive, even as the gun goes off, forcing his arm up so that the shot hits the wall harmlessly. He twists the arm behind his back, forcing the man to his knees, and wrestles the gun from his hand. Poussagrive is silenced with one shot, and Glorieux falls back to the ground, breathing hard.

“Shit.” Gueulemer breathes. “Glor?”

“Get out of here.” Glorieux manages.

“Yeah, let’s go, fucking hell-“

“No. I mean. You get out of here.”

“I-what? No. We both-“

“I can’t, Mer.” It’s then Gueulemer sees Glorieux’s thigh, the blood seeping steadily through his jeans. “Can’t exactly run.”

“So we’ll call Babet to pick us up.”

“He’s at least twenty minutes away. Police’ll be here by then, station’s only five minutes away.”

“Maybe they weren’t called-“

“There were gunshots, Mer, and we aren’t exactly in our neighborhood anymore. Somebody called the fucking cops.”

“I am not leaving without you.” Gueulemer spits through gritted teeth. “That’s fucking insane, Glor, as if I would ever do that.”

“You have to.” He says. “I’m not taking you down too. It’s my blood everywhere, my fingerprints on the gun.”

“My knife in Thenardier.”

“Then take it with you, dumbass, just _get the fuck out, Mer._ ”

“No.” Gueulemer says, dropping to his knees beside Glorieux. His jeans are hardly torn, and Gueulemer grabs his unused knife to cut the leg open, wincing at the blood still flowing from Glorieux’s thigh. “Shit, Glor.” Glorieux tries to push him away, even as Gueulemer yanks off his own shirt. Amid Glorieux’s protests, he presses the shirt to the wound.

“Fuck.” Glorieux hisses in pain, and Gueulemer grits his teeth.

“Sorry.” He says. “I’m calling Babet.”

“I already told you-“ Glorieux starts, but Gueulemer is already dialing, his fingers leaving bloody prints on the screen. He presses down a bit harder on the wound as he does so, and Glorieux could swear his vision goes white with pain. Gueulemer is hissing into the phone then, his words too fast for Glorieux to follow, but apparently Babet somehow is.

“Fucking _hurry._ ” Gueulemer spits eventually, and hangs up the phone without anything further.

“Mer-“ Glorieux starts, but Gueul’s fingers dig into his thigh again and he lets out a sharp cry.

“I’m not leaving.” Gueulemer says, even as his face is illuminated by a flash of blue light from the window. “Oh, _shit._ ”

“Mer, _go._ ” Glorieux says desperately. “Come on, would you just-“ His words are cut off by Gueulemer’s mouth on his, desperate and angry and heartbroken. He’s not sure if he’s breathless because of this or because of the pain he’s in from his thigh, but all he can think is ‘fucking _finally.’_ His fingers clutch at Gueulemer’s tank top, probably staining the fabric with his own blood. He doesn’t want to let go.

“Gueulemer.” He says softly, pulling away. There are tears in Gueulemer’s eyes.

“I can’t leave without you.”

“Make the right fucking choice for once, Jesus Christ. Get the fuck out of here.” Glorieux shoves him toward the back door, even as Gueulemer tries to grab at his hand. “ _Go._ ”

One last look, and then Gueulemer is gone, slipping out the back door and disappearing into the night.

Glorieux can’t help but feel relieved.

 

* * *

 

 

Gueulemer is still shaking hours later. He can’t stop seeing the look on Glorieux’s face, the way he’d hissed _“Get the fuck out, Mer, go-“_

His leg had still been bleeding.

And Gueulemer? Gueulemer is the one who’d orchestrated this whole thing, who’d dragged Glorieux along with him, who’d refused to take no for an answer. Gueulemer is a fucking coward who let his best friend get arrested, who had just _run_ and left Glorieux-

“Gueulemer, breathe.” Babet says.

“F-fuck you, ‘m breathing.” Gueulemer manages around his decidedly panicked breaths. “Fucking-Glorieux-fucking _coward-_ “

And if he starts crying then, Babet is good enough not to mention it.


End file.
